


King's Blood; Fool's Blood

by Little_Ghost14



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - Red Wedding, Canon-Typical Violence, Multi, Post - Red Wedding, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 18:17:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 157,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10702464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Ghost14/pseuds/Little_Ghost14
Summary: Demoralised and traumatised following the red wedding, Robb is a virtual prisoner at Riverrun.  Having barely survived by the skin of his teeth, his last hope is fading fast.  Widowed on her wedding day and facing a future with a boy King, Margaery Tyrell is jaded and tired.  Struggling to find her place in the world, she ends up being sent on a diplomatic mission to the Riverlands along with most of the Tyrell army.  Neither yet realise they're each other's last chance.Also Jon and Dany.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Ages ago, when I was writing Full Fathom Five, people kept on asking for these ships but it just wouldn't have worked in that story.  However, I promised I would one day write a story containing those ships.  In this, I intend to deliver on that promise. So, please enjoy...**

* * *

 

 

Lord Walder's toothless mouth flapped like a landed fish as he raised his hand for silence. Finally, to Robb's relief, the terrible musicians ceased their cacophony and the old man began talking. For the first time that night, it was not a barrage of thinly veiled insults either. Another reason for him to breathe a sigh of relief.

"Your Grace," the old man rattled, "the septon had prayed his prayers, some words have been said and Lord Edmure wrapped my sweetling in a fish cloak, but they are not yet man and wife. A sword needs a sheath and a wedding needs a bedding. What does my sire say? Is it meet that we should bed them?"

Robb's head soon began to throb to the chorus of a thousand voices all calling out in unison. "To bed! To bed! To bed with them." Giddy from the strong wine, he rose unsteadily to his feet and shrugged off the man who was also trying to get his attention. Up on the dais the poor bride was white with nerves, her eyes red from tears. She made him think of his half-brother's direwolf. Edmure, by contrast, looked ready to bed his bride right there on the high table for all the Twins to see. Meanwhile the old man looked on, his bald spotted head shining in the candlelight. For the first time that night, Robb met his gaze easily.

After raising his hand to silence the chanting crowds, he spoke loud enough for the whole hall to hear. "If you think the time is meet, Lord Walder, then by all means let us bed them."

His declaration was met with a roar of approval and all around him the crowds parted. The women descended on Edmure while the men made for Roslyn. They would be stripped and bedded and finally the union would be complete. Meanwhile, the air was filled with their drunken japes and ribald jokes. Only Talisa didn't seem to get it. She was looking up at Robb from where she had remained seated.

"That is a very strange custom," she remarked, getting to her feet.

Any minute now the terrible music would start again and he reached for her hand, hoping for a dance. From the corner of his eye, he could see Dacey Mormont already pairing up with Emmett Frey. But before he could so much as form a reply to his Queen, the man from before forcefully cut over him, shouting over the continued din of the Frey girls now crowding around Edmure.

"Your Grace, please, the message is urgent."

Robb felt his tempter snapping again. The earlier rebuke from Lord Walder, the constant noise, the heat and the wine were all conspiring to make his head ache and now a messenger from some Lord or other was nagging at him when all he wanted was a moment alone with his wife. But what the messenger said next stunned him into silence.

"There's a man outside with a girl who says she's your sister, Lady Arya."

For a moment, Robb was rooted to the spot. There were still crowds of Freys and Northerners bearing the happy couple the length of the hall, on the way to the bedding chamber. While he desperately tried to think, all he could hear was them. Then, compounding matters, the musicians began to play their discordant racket once more.

' _Mother,_ ' he thought to himself. Desperately, he tried to find her among the thronging crowds. When he spotted her, just as the crowds parted, she was on the opposite side of the hall and deep in conversation with Lord Bolton. Once he did see her, he had second thoughts. If that girl wasn't Arya after all it would break what was left of Catelyn's heart.

"Robb, go. Go now," Talisa urged him, clearly wondering why he wasn't out the door already.

Desperation set in quick. "If the old man sees me leaving he'll take it as an insult."

Talisa sighed impatiently, pulling the cloak off her own shoulders. "The servant's entrance. Now go. If anyone notices I'll make your excuses."

"Your Grace, please," the messenger urged.

Before leaving the Queen, he planted a firm kiss on her cheek. "Wait for me here, I'll be back soon."

She smiled, her dark eyes glittering happily. "I can't wait to meet her. Now go!"

She gave him no choice in the matter and nudged him in the back, giving him a sharp shove forwards. Taking the initiative, the messenger – the chained giant of House Umber sewn to his doublet – led him toward a small exit that was screened off from the main hall. The servant's entrance. They ducked inside, mingling with the hordes of servants all passing in and out of the main hall. Some bore barrels of wine on their shoulders, other's hoisted whole carcasses from the store rooms to the spits in the open fires. Not one person in there had time to notice the two newcomers as they hurried through.

The heat in the great hall was bad enough, in the kitchens it was stifling. Robb shoved his way through the kitchen exit and took a grateful breath of night air. Finally out of the noise and clamour of the hall, he could speak to the Umber messenger more clearly.

"Did you see her? Where is she?" he asked.

The man did not stop and carried on leading him to the external front of the hall.

"She's at the postern gate, Your Grace. She was brought here by a man with a scarred face and that's all I know," the other man explained as he led the way.

Robb followed, marvelling at how loud the musicians inside the hall were. Even outside, among the thousands of men camped outside, he could hear their din loud and clear. Muffled, but distinct, it suddenly stopped. Sending up a silent prayer of thanks, he wrapped Talisa's cloak tight around him and hurried after the messenger. If that was Arya, he didn't like the sound of the man with her one bit. Seconds later, the keening refrain of the Reynes of Castamere could be heard drifting across the grounds.

' _Strange choice'_ , he thought to himself. But he didn't have long to reflect on it. A little boy suddenly shot out of the crowd and barrelled into him, hugging him tight around the middle. Impatient to be rid of him, Robb tried to shrug him off.

"Boy-" he cut off abruptly as the child looked up. "Arya!"

Her hair had been cut off, she had grown, but she was still undoubtedly Arya. Her eyes welled with tears and she bit her lip, the way she did when she thought people were angry with her. And when she opened her mouth to speak, a scream rent the air behind them. They both whipped around toward the source of the noise, to where a man had a sword thrust through his gut at the same time as another had his throat cut. Simultaneously, tables were kicked over as armed men suddenly charged through the crowds lashing out at all who got in their way.

"Robb, what's happening?" Arya asked, her voice shaking as fear took hold of her.

He reached for his sword, remembering he had left it outside the hall before the wedding began. Now he could hear screams and shouts coming from within the hall, all the while the Reynes of Castamere continued to drift eerily through the night air as the massacre swung into motion. Without thinking, he ran back toward the hall only to find Freys and Boltons surrounding the whole place, firing quarrels from crossbows into the fighting crowds.

' _The Boltons?'_ He didn't understand why they were firing into the crowds. Bewildered, stunned, he tried to reach one of them, to find out what was happening. But when one of the Bolton men found him, he trained his crossbow right at Robb and loosed the quarrel.

Robb tried to pivot out of the way, but a blinding pain in his shoulder informed him the arrow had hit home. He staggered back, trying to put some distance between himself and the hall. All around him people fled, he tripped over a corpse in Stark livery and looked over his now bleeding shoulder to where the direwolf banners shrivelled and burned in open fires raging across the camps. He didn't have time to process what was happening, he had to find a way back into the hall. He had to reach his mother and his Queen.

"Robb!" Arya cried out behind him. "Robb, no!"

She caught his cloak – Talisa's cloak – and began pulling him.

His decision had to be made on the spot, in the middle of the sky falling in. Talisa and Catelyn were out of reach and he had no sword, but Arya was right in front of him.

"Arya run!" he yelled at her. "Go to Riverrun-"

"I'm not leaving without you," she shouted back, that stubborn look in her eyes. "I'm not going anywhere without mother!"

Just then, a huge and hulking figure shouldered his way out of the crowds. Robb reached for the sword he knew he didn't even have, just as Sandor Clegane lowered his hood. His heart jumped in his throat as he realised that was he who brought Arya to him. The Hound's sword was drawn, dripping red with blood. Robb almost collapsed against him.

"Take her," he gasped, breathlessly. "Take her to Riverrun, to Brynden Tully!"

"Are you fucking mad?" Clegane growled at him. "Stay here and you'll die."

He felt like he was dying already. All the same, Clegane picked Arya up as if she weighed no more than a leaf and bore her away. She cried out loud in anger and fear, but they were soon lost among the chaos. Whether they made it or not, he couldn't worry about that now. Ignoring the pain building in his shoulder, he stumbled forwards in search of Grey Wind. Where the crowds thinned, he hid behind trailers or carts and, at one point, a stack of barrels. But when he reached the place where the wolf was chained, Grey Wind was already dead. Robb could see his face resting in the straw, red with blood, slack and lifeless.

It hit him, then. The grief, the anger, the betrayal. But there was still no time to dwell on it. He reached for a sword that once belonged to a now dead soldier and pushed away from the wall he had hidden behind. Although his strength was leaving him fast and his shirt was now soaked in blood, he managed to run. He focused all his rage and all his grief into putting one leg in front of the other as fast as he could, lashing out with his sword every time he saw a Frey or Bolton livery. He cut the legs from under one man and took another's head off with one strong blow. Someone had been chasing him, so he pivoted gracefully and slashed at his face and took off the top of his head. Blood sprayed over him as the corpse fell to the floor with a sickening thump.

And all the time, the Reynes of Castamere played on. All around him, men grunted and died to the sound of the strings and the beat of the distant drum. There was nothing he could do for any of them now. He reached a gate guarded by nothing more than a tradesman caught in the melee and barrelled past him. And he was on the bridge, caught between the twin towers of House Frey. The bridge that had led him to this very moment.

Caught been the two, rooted to the spot again, there was nothing else to do but jump. Squeezing himself between the railings, he braced himself. A hesitation too long as he was hit by another quarrel, this time in the leg. The force of the blow pushed him over the edge and plunged him down into the rushing waters. He hit the surface, causing shockwaves of pain to course through his whole body, and let the tide do the rest.

* * *

Margaery's chamber door opened and she caught a brief glimpse of that familiar auburn hair belonging to the girl waiting outside. She breathed a sigh of relief and checked the dishes laid out on her small table again. Lemon cakes, crisp mint tea and an assortment of other little treats. Everything was in order and even the sun had shown its face. Off the terrace, the Blackwater glittered merrily, bringing with it a fresh see breeze that swept over the Maidenvault.

Megga curtsied to her. "Lady Stark-"

"I know," she cut her cousin off. "Please, show her in."

She had half expected Sansa to shun her after the marriage fiasco. They had promised her Willas and Cersei had forced Tyrion on her instead. Even now, it made her seethe and her knuckles whiten as she unknowingly made a fist, as if to punch the Queen Mother. She and her grandmother had taken this act for what it was – a declaration of war. For now, however, she pushed her anger aside and rose to kiss her dear friend on the cheek.

"Lady Sansa, how lovely to see you again," she said, courteous as ever. "How are you feeling now?"

Sansa blushed. She always blushed. Olenna thought it made the girl look like a pomegranate. Margaery thought it quite becoming of her.

"I am well, your grace."

"Stupid question, really," Margaery intoned, showing her to her seat at the table. "It's just you and me today, so no interruptions."

Cersei had spies in her household. But it mattered not for Margaery had spies in the Queen Mother's household too. It was a game they played. A game she was growing heartily sick of. But today, she had gone to pains to ensure it really was just her and Sansa.

"Sansa, I want you to know that my grandmother and I had no part in Cersei's cruel plans," she said, serving up the girl's favourite cakes. "We knew nothing of your marriage to Lord Tyrion and, if we had, we could have acted to stop it."

Sansa put her brave face on. "It's all right, really. Lord Tyrion isn't like his sister. He's different to all the Lannisters."

Margaery's heart broke for her. A beauty wasted on a disgraced imp. Worse, Tywin was still refusing to name Tyrion his heir even though there was no other of his own line. It meant Sansa didn't even have the comfort of Casterly Rock to console her.

"Anyway, you ought not feel sorry for me, you're marrying Joffrey in a few days time!" Sansa laughed. "I would take Tyrion over him any day. At least Tyrion is kind. He's promised not to make me do anything until I am ready."

That piqued her interest. "By 'anything' do you mean the marriage bed, my lady?"

Sansa nodded and blushed furiously, showing her to be the child she still was. "Yes," she murmured. She dropped her voice lower and added: "I know that means we aren't really married yet."

Margaery allowed herself a smile. "My advice to you is to keep it that way. Mark my words, things will be changing around here and Cersei will be quite undone once Joffrey and I are married."

With a little luck, Sansa's own brother would see to that too. The King in the North continued to vex the mighty Tywin, keeping that lion's pride in check on every battlefield from the Whispering Wood to Oxcross. As for Joffrey, he was all bluster and fury, with little of substance to justify his own grandiosity. But still, she had to marry him for better or worse. Her father had seen to that.

They fell into chatter as Margaery served the tea herself. They talked about the gallant knights pouring into the court for the upcoming wedding; they even talked about Edmure Tully's marriage to Roslyn Frey and Petyr Baelish's attempts to woo Lysa Arryn. It seemed love was in the air for just about everyone, except her. Marrying the king was her duty. And like all duties, she just had to grit her teeth and get on with it.

"Who was it your brother married?" she queried.

Sansa shrugged as she bit into a lemon cake and swallowed. "No one will tell me her name. But I know she's from Volantis. I wish I could meet her, she's my new Queen."

Cersei would have had the girl's head for saying that, but Margaery didn't mind. In fact, it was time for a confession of her own.

"I've been curious to meet your brother ever since your mother told me all about him, when we met at the Stormlands. And just about everyone whose opinion I value had nothing but praise for your dear father."

Sadness filled the other girl's eyes at mention of her father. "Even Joffrey?"

"I said, everyone whose opinion I value," Margaery laughed.

For a second the other girl looked shocked, but she too laughed and covered her mouth as if she'd said something rude.

"A visitor, my lady."

Margaery turned to where Megga had rejoined them on the terrace. "I did say I was not to be interrupted."

Megga leaned in close to Margaery's ear and whispered so only she could hear. "Lord Tyrion."

Margaery groaned inwardly, but refused to disrupt Sansa's afternoon tea. Instead, she rose and courteously excused herself as if nothing was wrong. Outside, in the small presence chamber, she found the dwarf waiting for her with the look of a lost dog on his face. In his hands, he held a small scrap of parchment that he toyed with incessantly. She curtsied to him and for a moment they were level with each other.

"Is my wife in there with you?" he asked.

Tyrion glanced around nervously, as if Sansa might be hiding in the nearby ornamental vase. Margaery almost laughed.

"Yes, my lord. Why so nervous?"

He handed her the parchment, which she read once and then twice. _'Roslyn landed a fine fat trout,'_ it said. Then something about wolf pelts that made little sense, unless…

"Is this what I think it is?" she asked, feeling her blood run cold.

She glanced over her shoulder, to where the door had been left open. Fearing Sansa might overhear, she quickly closed it and returned to Lord Tyrion. She noticed how pale he was, how he rocked unsteadily on his feet. His mismatched eyes failed to meet her own and he trembled.

"Dead," he said. "All dead."


	2. Seven Blessings

The last thing Robb remembered was drowning. Deep in the river, the current pulled him down and down again. But now he was running. His racing footsteps echoed off a high vaulted ceiling; torch flames swayed in the slipstream as he ran past them, making the shadows dance. All around him the Winter Kings gripped their rusted swords, watching his flight through the endless crypts with granite-eyed contempt.  _Running away? As well you might, the King who lost the North…_

But he was drowning. His lungs burned and a cold sweat prickled his burning skin. He ran past his grandfather, his uncle and his aunt. He ran past the place where his father should be, and slammed into the next statue as if it had appeared out of nowhere. He reeled backwards, slamming into the cold flagstones as he hit the ground and knocked the breath from his lungs. Gasping, he rolled over and tried to pick himself up, but he could only get to his knees.

Still on his knees, he looked up at what he'd run into. It wasn't another statue. It was a plinth, topped with a hacked and bleeding corpse, it's head gone, replaced with the head of a direwolf. Grey Wind's tongue lolled from his bloodied maws, slack and dry as dust. A paper crown stiff with dried blood was askew on his head. Grey fur, matted with yet more blood.

Struck dumb with the terror of it, Robb forced himself to look into the wolf's eyes. They were dull and glassy, where once they had burned yellow in life. And there he saw himself palely reflected, giving him the jolt he needed to be on his way. Back on his feet, his knees were weak and sore, but he ran all the same. Breathless and still dazed, he ran up the stone, turnpike stair. Somewhere, a dog was barking.

He took the steps two at a time, racing for the surface as the dog's barking grew louder and louder. Away from the light of the torches, it was too dark to see. An invisible hand reached out, pressing on his shoulder as if trying to drag him back into the darkness of the crypts. He was having none of that and kept on running until he reached the heavy weirwood door. He fell on the doors, throwing them open and landing in a pool of dazzling light.

All the while, the dog kept barking. Robb sat up, still dazzled and gasping for breath. His vision cleared slowly, the pain in his thigh and shoulder returning. A hut revealed itself around him. A wooden hut with a packed earth floor and barking dog. His leg was bound and a poultice had fallen off his shoulder when he sat up, abruptly knocked out of his fevered dreams.

The last thing he remembered was the river. He scrambled ashore, just as they paraded the wolf-headed corpse through the ruins of grounds. He remembered the mocking chants of "all hail the King in the North". He slid back into the river after that, and that was the last he remembered. Drowning with the corpses all around him.

Now this. A hut the gods only knew where and a barking dog for company. He tried to move, but hot pain lanced through his leg and torso. Cursing aloud, he shrank back onto the straw mattress he woke up on. It wasn't a proper bed, just a stuffed straw mattress on the ground. A dark red stain showed where he had bled during the night. Likewise, the night shirt he had been dressed in bore strange stains and he dared not think too hard on what their origins were.

The dog was whimpering and scratching at the door now. Robb froze, turning to look at him. He hadn't the faintest idea who would come through that door. The wisest thing to do would be to silence the dog. To kill it. But whoever owned him would be back soon, anyway. And whoever else was here and had taken care of him. His wounds were bound and his body was clean. His clothes had been washed and now lay folded on a wicker chair next to the mattress.

All the same, his stomach churned and his nerves scattered. In limbo, he couldn't do anything. Until the door opened, letting in a long shaft of bright sunlight. He found himself looking up at a man of at least six feet, with a shock of thick grey hair. His feet were bare, black and caked in dirt. Robb's throat constricted, his heartbeat racing as he looked up at the giant, who smiled down at him benignly.

"Gods be praised, you're awake," he declared, sounding genuinely pleased. "Well, I heard Dog barking away and I thought something must've happened. Tell me now, lad, how do?"

He closed the door behind him and Robb could see he had a brace of rabbits slung over one shoulder. A seven-pointed star hung around his neck on an old bootlace. A Septon, but not like any he had seen before.

"W-who are you?" he rasped, finding his throat dry and sore.

He tried to sit up again, only for the Septon to ease him back onto the mattress.

"Septon Meribald," he answered, cheerily. "You're a Northman, I know. But don't fret, I won't try and convert you- "

"How did I get here?" he asked, cutting over the Septon's promises.

"Ah, that," he answered. Meribald lifted Robb's clothes and sat in the wicker chair, still with the rabbits over one shoulder, bound at the feet. "I found you among the dead on the banks of the Green Fork, about four or five miles downriver of the Twins. I'd heard about the massacre and come to pray over the dead and bring what comfort I could to the dying. When I found you, you were surrounded by corpses, pale and cold as death itself you were. But then you moved, and you retched up a gutful of river water right into my lap. You mumbled something then sunk right back into unconsciousness. So, I slung you over my donkey and brought you straight here."

"And … and you tended my wounds?"

Meribald nodded. "Aye, lad. There's infection there, but I think you've slept off the worst of it. It's been almost two weeks."

Robb felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. "Two weeks? Gods, I have to go. I can't stay here- "

"Wait!" Meribald implored, sitting him back down again. "Wait another day or two, lad. You'll get nowhere in your condition, and certainly not back North. Now you just hang on there while I make us some rabbit stew, lad."

Meribald was right, of course. His injuries screamed at him every time he breathed, never mind trying to walk. And he couldn't go North because he had no home to go to any more. Exhausted and bewildered, he leaned against the wooden wall of the hut and closed his eyes in despair. It was clear that the Septon had no idea who he was, just that he was a Northern soldier called to war.

If he did suspect more, he said nothing. He opened the door to let the dog out and followed him, leaving the door open as he went, Robb could still see him, where he proceeded to skin and wash the rabbits. While they were hung on a line to drain, the Septon got a fire going. Finally, Robb had the strength to move again. Ignoring the pain in his wounds, he stumped outside to see if he could at least help prepare supper. Half way across the floor of the hut, he almost fell over.

By the time he made it there, the rabbit was already boiling in a pot over the open fire. All Robb could do was sit back down, cross-legged and watch over it while Septon Meribald pottered around.

"Do you remember much about the massacre?" Meribald asked.

"I was outside, on the bridge," Robb replied. "They just started killing us."

"Oh, aye, a terrible business right enough," Meribald said. He was dicing carrot and turnip on an old wooden board laid out on a trestle table.

The hut was little more than a shed, but there was a larger holdfast nearby. To Robb, it looked unoccupied. Dotted around the land, other dwellings were little more than wattle and daub, surrounded by thinning woodlands. It seemed he had, at least, washed up on the right side of the river.

"Old Lord Hoster's daughter was killed," Meribald continued. "I met her once, when I was younger and new to the Faith. They say she had her throat cut to the bone."

Robb jolted, and passed it off as another spasm of pain. "What about the King in the North?"

He remembered seeing the corpse with the wolf head. Were they really passing that off as him?

"Him too," Meribald replied. "Decapitated inside the hall. His Queen stabbed through the belly and thrown into the river. So many dead; numbers beyond counting."

There was no disguising his yelp as anything other than what it was. It was enough to bring Meribald back over, fussing over him and trying to get him back inside the hut. However, Robb decided that he had heard enough and let himself be half-carried back inside, where he could hide his grief. Grief that he had to contain anyway, less the Septon begin to question his identity.

So, the Freys and Boltons had passed off that mutilated corpse as him? The wolf's head used to disguise the fact that it wasn't him at all. It meant that the Riverlands as a whole, the Lannisters even, wouldn't be looking for him. However, Roose Bolton was no fool. He would have a few trusted men out searching. The Freys, too. And there were more than enough Frey's to go around.

Every time he tried to formulate a plan of escape, his thought returned to Talisa and the child they would never have. Catelyn was in there too, rising at the forefront of his mind. But, he couldn't let it show. He had to hold it together. An hour or so later, he was back outside in the fading light, letting Septon Meribald ladle rabbit stew into an earthenware bowl. He tried to push it away, reluctant to drain the man's resources. Besides, he wasn't hungry. His stomach churned and his grief weighed heavily on him. It felt like a lead weight stuck in his gut.

"Eat," said the Septon.

"I need to get home."

"You need to eat, if you want to make it there alive."

Robb had little resistance left so just gave up arguing. He managed to lift the spoon from bowl to mouth. It was a monumental effort.

"If you don't mind my asking, lad, who are you?" asked the Septon, kindly. "You don't have to answer if you wish not to. But just so I have something to call you other than 'lad'."

"Cley Cerwyn," he answered. "Our House is sworn to House Stark."

Cley Cerwyn had been Bran's friend, killed after the Ironborn took Winterfell. Killed alongside Bran and Rickon, he remembered. The full extent of his failure widened in his mind. Winterfell was gone, the North had been lost and his entire family and army massacred far from home. He tried to disentangle all his mistakes, but it was a garbled mess in his head.

The cookfire which Septon Meribald had used for stew was still crackling not far away. When Robb looked up, he could see the other man looking back at him contemplatively. Robb couldn't shift the uneasy feeling he had sensed a lie.

"House Stark is no more, Cley," he said, softly. "If I were you, I'd find a dead Bolton somewhere and pray to the Old Gods and the New that his livery fits you. Pass yourself off as one of them and they might just let you through."

Robb would sooner stick hot pins in his eyes, but thanked the Septon all the same. He was only trying to help.

"I can guide you as far as the Neck, but no farther," Meribald added. "The Riverlands are my territory."

Robb thanked him again, but had no intention of taking him up on the offer. But he grew curious about the other man, he was unlike any other septon he had met. And, for an hour or so at least, he wanted to hear about someone else's life. Any, but his own. So, he asked and wasn't disappointed.

While Meribald told him all about his life, how he fought in the war of the Ninepenny Kings and then joined the Faith, he slipped the rest of his stew to Dog. If Dog had any other name, Meribald said, he had not revealed it. So, the dog was literally just called Dog. Whatever the case, he was a friendly old dog. A small comfort to a King who had lost everything.

"I only joined the Faith so I could get women into bed," Meribald confessed, eyes lingering over the fire. "Now, I wander the Riverlands from village to village, barefoot as penance for my sins and bringing relief to the poor and the needy. As you can imagine, since the War of the Five Kings, my services have been more in demand than ever. I mean no disrespect to either Northman or Riverman alike, but it makes no difference who burns your fields or ransacks your village. Whether lion or wolf, the effect is the same: starvation and suffering."

There was no recrimination in the Septon's voice, but Robb got the inference. While he had played his game of thrones, people had suffered. People he had never met and people he had never known existed. Land had been pillaged, crops put to the torch and women raped while their screaming children looked on. Undoubtedly, all had been put to the sword once the raiders had finished. Robb said nothing, but stared into the now empty bowl of stew that Dog was now licking clean.

"And what was it all for?" Meribald continued. He sounded like he was talking to himself more than Robb. "A Northern Lord was wrongly executed, so the wrong of an innocent man's death was met with the deaths of thousands of other innocent people who had no part in any of it. And there's only us left picking up the pieces afterwards. No disrespect to you, Lord Cerwyn. I know your type have no choice but to follow your Lord into battle."

"No, you're right," Robb replied, flatly. If it wasn't so imperative that he keep his identity secret, he would have defended himself. Instead, all he could do was bite back the retort and stare fixedly at the bowl in his hands. "Well, that's the end of it now. Robb Stark is dead, the war is over."

"I wish no man dead, Cley and I'm sure Stark had honourable intentions. But if his death restores order and I never have to tend the dead after a battle again, I'll be glad of it," Meribald replied. He got up and called Dog to heel. "Well, Cley, you're more than welcome to stay here as long as you need. But, now you're awake and over the worst of it, Dog and I will be moving on soon enough. If not on the morrow, then the day after."

It was dark by the time they finished and Robb was back in the disused hut having received the Septon's customary 'seven blessings'. Just the one would be enough for him, he thought wryly. Once, the hut would have been a storage place for one of the larger farms nearby. Now it was abandoned and the farm burned down during the war. Not just  _the_  war;  _his_  war. All it was now was a handy resting place for footsore wandering Septons and the strays they picked up on the road. Strays like him.

That night, he lay awake on the straw mattress and stared up at the roof. Grief numbed him, leaving him cold from the tips of his fingers to the ends of his toes. He wondered why he was still alive, why he didn't just drown in that river. Had Theon's god saved him? He almost laughed. But no, Krakens didn't live in fresh water.

While all was still silent, he rose from the mattress and dressed himself. He only paused to unpick the direwolf badge from his tunic. There was no use in advertising his allegiances now. With no possessions to collect, he was free to walk out. But walking still hurt. All the same, he had to do it.

Dog was tethered outside another shed. He raised his head from his front paws and watched as Robb hobbled past, but made no sound as he went. Still so many miles from Riverrun, he would be needing those seven blessings. The first blessing he spent on a horse that was cropping at the grass in its field. Unsaddled and unharnessed, it would still do to carry him southward as best he could. And, even if he died on the way, at least the smallfolk could rest easy knowing there would be no more war coming their way.

* * *

"You can't seriously want to marry that obnoxious shit." Despite the harshness of his tone, Loras looked perfectly relaxed as he reclined in a chair on the terrace. "Ever since the massacre at the Twins, he's been insufferable. I mean, more insufferable than usual."

Margaery smiled. "What I want doesn't come into it, brother. You know that."

He met her gaze, shooting her a knowing look as if to say:  _we both know that's horse shit_. Either way, she was unconcerned. She was no Sansa Stark and Joffrey was surprisingly easy to manage. However, she wondered what it would be like once they were married, once Joffrey no longer had to play the pliant lover and she was his captive wife. Then she watched as Loras frowned and flicked a speck of dust from off his white cloak. One of the finest swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms, she probably had all the protection she needed.

"I mislike the idea of you being married to some malcontent who gains more pleasure from torturing little animals to death than he does in the bedchamber," he pressed on. After a deep breath, he leaned forward again and looked at her curiously. "Aren't you even curious about loving someone?"

It felt like an accusation. "I love you-"

"I mean loving someone properly," he cut in, impatiently. "You married Renly so he could have our army; you're marrying Joffrey for the crown, for father's ambitions. And throughout it all, you've foregone your own feelings."

A dark shadow passed over his face and she knew he was thinking of Renly.  _'When the sun has set, no candle can replace it.'_ Those were the words he had used to Tyrion Lannister. That was Renly. But, the luxury of choice was never going to be hers.

"Perhaps, if I had a sister," she said. "An older one, preferably, then the pressure would not be so great. But this is our reality, Loras. Sometimes, I dream that I've run off into the sunset with some noble, dashing lord. But, in the end, I always wake up to reality."

The wedding was happening in the morning, but for now she was still in the Maidenvault. If she looked out of her window, she could see the throne room. Inside there, the banquet would be held. Over seventy courses, entertainments and singers had been dragged in from all over the seven kingdoms.

"They're calling it the Red Wedding," she said, quietly.

"What?"

She didn't even know why she said that. As she thought of the preparations going into her own wedding, she found herself suddenly remembering Edmure Tully's. It occurred to her that all Cersei would have to do is lock the throne room doors and do what Walder Frey had done to the Starks.

"Luckily for us, Cersei needs our grain and supplies from the Reach," she added. "And our men. If they did that to us, they'd lose everything. Stannis is still out there, somewhere. Perhaps we should remind her of that."

"Oh, you're talking about the Starks," said Loras. "That's another thing, Margaery. I can't believe we're getting into bed with – literally and metaphorically – with people who would slaughter unarmed wedding guests under the protection of guest rights. What's worse, our beloved Queen Mother is now demanding we demonstrate our loyalty by taking Riverrun for House Lannister."

Margaery frowned. "I thought we already had Riverrun. Everyone was massacred and Edmure Tully is captive."

"Bryden Tully was not at the wedding," Loras pointed out. "He was left behind to hold the castle and he's refusing to surrender. Apparently, he also has Arya Stark in there with him."

"Sansa's sister?" she asked, sitting up. "Everyone thinks she's dead."

Loras shrugged. "It's only a rumour."

All the same, Margaery filed away that snippet of information and rose to her feet. "Well, I cannot keep Grandmother waiting any longer."

Loras got up as well, ready to escort her to Lady Olenna's chambers. "I cannot think why Sansa Stark's hairnet is so important, but apparently it is and Grandmother must discuss it with you as a matter of urgency."

"If she saw the hairnet she would probably just sling it over her shoulder, as she did with most of my wedding jewels."

Loras might have missed the undertones, but Margaery hadn't. Something was afoot and she was about to find out what.

Leaving the Maidenvault, they stepped out into a late afternoon still warm and balmy. She looked up Maegor's, where Cersei watched over her realm from her terrace. To the left, close to the Blackwater, Sansa Stark ducked into the godswood, furtively glancing over her shoulder. Even now, weeks after the deaths of her mother, brother and sister by law, her eyes were still red and swollen with tears.

For a moment, Margaery thought to run after her. If Arya really was at Riverrun then Sansa had a right to know. But when she glanced over her shoulder to where the girl was lurking by the godswood, she found she had already vanished. Margaery hesitated, hoping she would reappear, only for Loras to gently tug on her elbow.

"Sister, come," he said. "We can't keep the old lady waiting."

She nodded, a silent gesture of assent. Meanwhile, close to the throne room, and out across the streets, gold and green bunting lined the route to the Great Sept of Baelor. In a matter of hours, her union would be tolling across Blackwater Bay and her neck would snap under the weight of a crown.


	3. The Hammer of Justice

Under the cover of darkness, Robb made his way through a Riverlands infested with Freys. They may have passed that broken corpse off as him, but they couldn't very well be fooled by their own deception. As well as rounding up stray Stark bannermen, they would be looking for him. Whether they were under orders to take him a captive to Roose Bolton or simply kill him on sight, Robb couldn't guess. Besides, either way resulted in certain death – one way possibly a little quicker than the other.

All the same, he took no chances. Even by night he stayed away from open roads and circled villages, avoiding people as best he could. Every stray traveller whose approach he saw, he had to assume was working for the enemy. At every approach, he slipped into the cover of trees and verges and overgrown bushes. Whatever was closest. Sometimes, if he was lucky, he stayed close enough to pick up snippets of conversation.

Mostly, he picked up the chatter of smallfolk. Crops, harvest, labour in the fields and the desolation of war. But, more than once, they talked of wolves. A wolf pack roaming the land led by a she-wolf the size of a destrier, angry and aggressive as the Mountain. These wolves, the she-wolf in particular, knew no fear. Whatever the truth of these stories, it made him yearn for Grey Wind. Grey Wind always showed him the way out of a tight spot. He would have headed off the smaller wolves that prowled these forests. Without his beloved companion, he felt as vulnerable as his name day.

He did hear them. Their howls haunted the woods every hour of the night, the loudest of them even sounded like Grey Wind. Howls that carried easily, resonating through the trees; it sounded like loss. Once or twice, he thought he caught sight of them and his horse shied. One evening, at sunset, he awoke to find his stolen horse had wandered off in the day as he had slept. It's mauled remains he found a mile or two down the tracks he was following, its guts spilling over the dirt track.

He could have wept; half wishing the wolves had done for him, too. Still suffering from a quarrel through the leg and his shoulder, he couldn't walk for long. Dehydrated, he had given in and drank water from a river. He'd been vomiting and shitting through a needle's eye ever since. Now his horse was gone, too. His only companion throughout the long and dangerous journey to Riverrun. All he had now was fear and the danger of the stalking wolfpack. It felt like they were following him.

Worse, he couldn't estimate how far he had come. He looked for landmarks, something to give him some clue as to where he was. For all he knew, in his pain and sickness, he could have walked in a big circle and not noticed. Sometimes, he grew so lightheaded and dizzy, he didn't even know which way was forwards. Then the sickness would return and he'd be left so thirsty he ended up unable to resist drinking from the river water. Unable to stop himself, he sucked it down and tried to ignore the grit and river mud mixed in. And the cycle of sickness would begin again.

By the time the mounted retainers had him surrounded, he was sorely tempted to just give himself up. Get it over and done with. He had nothing to live for anyway. He had lost the North, savaged the Riverlands, seen his mother, wife and unborn child butchered at a wedding feast along with thousands of bannermen. In this haze of pain, grief and fever, he didn't even know why he was bothering to try and save himself. Even Arya would be better off without him.

All the same, he pressed his back flat against a tree and listened as the horse's hoof falls got closer and closer. He didn't dare breathe; he didn't even need to look to know that they were Freys. Two men talked quietly to each other, but he heard more horses than that. It was growing dark, too. He had only just left the spot he'd holed up in to rest.

"Who goes there?"

The breath hitched in Robb's throat and he tried to make himself as small as possible from where he hid behind the broad oak trunk. Soft, wet moss soaked through the shirt he wore, rainfalls dripping from the canopy overhead. The men dismounted, he heard their feet hit the soft ground, squelching in the mud. This was soon followed by the sickening sound of twine drawn tight as an arrow was knocked to a bow.

"Show yourself!" The speaker grew impatient. "You have no escape."

Robb's gut churned, stopping him from thinking clearly. He had no weapon and was too weak to fight anyway. If he moved a muscle, he'd be seen. All the while, the men-at-arms approached him with footsteps as soft as snowfall, getting closer all the time. His mind raced for a way out, but there was none. He couldn't fight back and he couldn't out run them.

Rather than be hunted like an animal, Robb screwed up his courage and stepped out from behind the tree. He held up his hands to show was unarmed and dropped to his knees, head down. He saw them only long enough to note the twin towers of House Frey stitched into their cloaks. All he had as a passable disguise was filthy clothes, several days of beard growth and a strong stench of vomit and shit that clung to him like a second skin. Quite a difference to when these men might have seen him last.

There were six of them, four of which had weapons trained right on him.

"I'm just a farmer, sers," he blurted out. "My holdfast is near Oldstones, where I'm for now."

The arrows were still trained on him, the men still drawing closer. Less cautious now. One of the two doing the talking stepped forwards, looking him up and down.

"Oh really," he said. "Well, we'll see about that."

He took a length of rope that had been looped at his hip and straightened it out. "If you are who you say you are, you have nothing to fear."

All the same, Robb shied as he tried to think of something to do. "I've done nothing, sers. I'm just a farm hand- "

"I thought you said you had a farm in Oldstones?" one of them asked. "Now you say you're just a farmhand."

"My master's farm is in Oldstones, I can take you there," he said, desperately. "My Lord of the Crossing would not thank you for wasting his time with the likes of me. My master can vouch for me and then you can be on your way, no harm done."

The four suddenly dropped their arms and grouped together to confer amongst themselves. 'Oldstones is closer than the Twins,' one of them said. To which the other replied: "yeah, but the Old Man's going mad back at the Twins." All the while, Robb watched them, his blue eyes shifting from one to the other while silently praying for divine intervention as their voices dropped too low to hear. After what felt an age, the man with the rope approached again.

"All right then, Oldstones it is," he said. "If you're lying, we'll cut you down on the spot. Understand?"

Almost giddy with relief, Robb nodded. "Yes, sers."

It would take days to get there, during which time he could recover some strength. At some point, they would have to stop and rest overnight. He would find a way to get out of the binding. They each had swords at their hips and all he needed was one of them. But he was weak. Even standing upright and holding out his wrists to be tied up took effort. And they bound him tight, double knotting the rope around his wrists and then tying the other end securely to the saddle of one of the horses. He was to marched along like a slave, it seemed.

Mounted up again, the one who seemed to be in charge looked back at Robb. "Right then, we should reach The Twins in a week or so."

Instinctively, Robb pulled back, causing the rope to tighten. His heartbeat raced. "You said Oldstones! My master is at Oldstones- "

Two of the men exchanged a knowing look.

"See, I told you," one said to the other. "He's definitely got something to hide."

"He even sounds like a fucking Northerner…"

The horses walked on, dragging Robb with them. He tried to protest, only to be silenced with a lick of a horsewhip that lashed against the small of his back. His protests reduced to a startled yelp, he could only stumble after them as they headed for the road and back the way he came.

* * *

The wedding guests arrived early. Lannisters and Tyrells, the two families of the bride and groom. Margaery watched them from behind a rood screen in the Great Sept of Baelor. Multi-coloured light spilling through the stained-glass windows illuminated gowns of silk and samite, showing them off to their full advantage. The High Septon was there, talking to King Joffrey in a low voice. She barely paid attention to either of them.

Close by, her grandmother reclined in a wicker chair that had brought out especially for her. Try as she might, Margaery could not be as calm or as collected as Lady Olenna in those final few hours. Nervously, she chewed at a fingernail, waiting hawkishly over the arriving guests. Still no sign of Sansa.

"Have you considered what might happen if she doesn't wear the hairnet?" asked Margaery, keeping her voice down. "What will we do then?"

Dear Grand-mama seemed thoroughly unconcerned. "Of course she'll wear it. She made a solemn promise to that drunken sot Baelish has seen fit to pass off as a real knight. The Starks are famed for having promises as solemn as their long, grey faces, dear child."

As nervous as she was, Margaery couldn't help but laugh. "I wouldn't call Sansa grey-faced, Grandmother."

It hadn't been long since she was brought in on the plan. As such, her sleeplessness the night before the wedding had less to do with a blushing bride's excitement and nerves, and more to do with getting her timing right. If she leapt to her feet and declared "He's choking!" too soon, it would look like she had prior knowledge. Worst case scenario: she raised the alarm much too quickly and Joff really was just coughing. Cersei would sniff that rat from a hundred miles away.

' _Just wait until he starts to turn purple,'_  her grandmother had advised. That would have to do.

"Margaery, sweetling."

Olenna's voice drew her out of her nervous musings. She looked at the old lady, finding her looking soft and serious. The look she gave her granddaughter was measured all the same.

"Yes, Grandmother."

"It is far too late to end this Mummer's farce today, not without making sworn enemies of House Lannister," said Olenna. "And we need only to look at what's left of the Starks to know the consequences of that. Your father is to blame. Lord Oath of Highgarden insisted on making his sweetest rose a queen and here we bloody well are."

Margaery turned away from the gathering congregation and knelt before her grandmother. "Thank you. But remember, I agreed to father's plans. It was not all his fault."

"All the same," Olenna continued, taking Margaery's hands in her own. "Once all this is over, and I have put right your father's foolish mistakes, if you want out: say the word. Leave your fool father to me and you can go back to Highgarden and I will find a husband worthy of your hand. As if such a man exists!"

Margaery tried to laugh again, but found her mouth dry. Although racked with uncertainty, she shook her head, causing golden-brown curls to slide over her shoulder.

"I know what I am doing," she lied, even though she knew Olenna would see right through it. Those eyes may have been old, but they were as sharp as ever. "We can make this family great. And Tommen is… - "

"A fat and foolish child," Olenna finished for her.

"I was going to say 'pliable'," said Margaery. After a deep sigh, she added: "But 'fat and foolish child' is also true. But he's sweet and an innocent. I would have no harm come to him. Not ever."

"Of course not," Olenna retorted. "My only concern is getting that insufferable shit, Joffrey, well away from you, my dear. Nothing more. What comes next is up to you."

"Thank you, Grandmother." Margaery genuinely appreciated her concern. Sometimes, it felt like her mother and Grandmother, Loras too, were the only ones with her real interests at heart. And she had been happy to help her father to advance the family's fortunes for their sake. But now it had led her to two loveless marriages, this time to a boy described as a monster.

She couldn't see what came next. She could only see this wedding and the banquet that followed. Standing again, she moved to the rood screen and glanced over the panelling and out into the congregation. Lady Sansa had arrived, standing stiffly and blank-faced alongside her husband. The two of them looked ridiculous together.

Sansa wore a gown of silver satin and a cloak trimmed with vair. Her auburn hair was neatly arranged beneath a silver hairnet. When she turned her head. the amethysts winked at Margaery, a bright purple that caught the sunlight pouring through the tall windows. Of course, she was wearing the hairnet.

Just then, Joffrey caught her eye. Golden haired and emerald eyed, his smile was pure malignance.  _'Now, I've got you,'_ he seemed to be saying.

* * *

After days of marching away from the Twins, suffering every step of the way, Robb was now being marched straight back the way he came. All through the night, his captors made him walk, pulling him along by the rope bound at his wrists. He collapsed twice. The second time, he wasn't even aware of what was happening. The ground simply got closer, while his head swam and his mind went blank. He woke up face down in a ditch, covered in wet mud and filth. A yank on the rope, a kick up the arse, and he was somehow back on his feet.

"You sound suspiciously Northern to me," one of them said, accusingly. "You sure you're not a wolf?"

A real wolf answered, howling into the dusk a full day after his capture. The guard's companions laughed heartily as if the beast had answered the question on Robb's behalf.

"You sure you're not a cunt?" Robb snapped back. It was childish, but it was all he had.

His answer was a smack in the mouth so hard he tasted blood. Reeling from the blow, his captors pulled him along again, yanking hard on the rope so that he fell on his knees. Another kick up the arse and a lashing with the horse whip soon pulled him too. The trees rustled, branches clashing against each other. Somewhere, another wolf howled and animals darted through the undergrowth. Afraid of the wolves, probably. Even the guards looked worried as the howling grew louder.

What felt like a thousand years ago, he and his mother had come to a rest at the tomb of King Tristifer Mudd, the Hammer of Justice. It was there that he had legitimised Jon and made him his heir and sent the document North. He wondered where it was now. Had his messengers made it past Moat Cailin? Were they stranded in the Neck? Had they sailed on the Myraham or was it returning to Oldtown? Robb could barely remember now. But he remembered the Hammer of Justice. Was this justice that he was facing now?

He recalled what Septon Meribald had said to him about the war and the suffering of the people. Was this the price he had to pay now? For the lands burned and the women raped, for the men put to the sword in his name. He looked upwards, but could only see the impenetrable canopy of trees overhead.

However, it was then that something heavy and large dropped from the overhead branches. Simultaneously, something equally large burst out of the ground as if he had materialised from thin air. Other men, the gods alone knew where they had been hiding, sprang out from the sides with weapons drawn. Before Robb could even sink to the ground, arrows were whistling past his head while the guards drew their swords. But already, one of them had taken an arrow to the eye. He hit the ground with a wet splash, landing in a muddy puddle.

"Nice one, Anguy!"

A bright light cut through the darkness as a sword burst into flames, illuminating the weather-beaten face of a man with an eye-patch. Another sword took flame, showing Robb a man in faded red robes.

The flaming sword got to work on the remaining guards, the air ringing with curses and the sound of steel on steel.

"Fuckin' Brotherhood scum!" Robb's captor shouted. It was followed by a grunt as the man's insides spilled from his belly.

Still bound at the wrists and secured to a horse's saddle, Robb could only duck down behind the animal and protect himself as best he could. But the fight scared the horse, causing him to rear up violently, almost kicking him in the head. Robb rolled away just in time, but then the last guard standing made sure to give the beast a good kick. Robb could only cry out helplessly as the animal charged, dragging him along the ground with him. He crashed through bushes, smashed into trees and bounced through puddles for what felt like an age. It was only a man in a dirty and patched yellow cloak grabbing the reins and soothing the horse that calmed it again. Robb wanted to kiss the man, but could only whimper in pain.

Robb curled up on the ground, aching all over, unable to vocalise anything more than a strangulated groan. Blood was pouring from his nose, mingling with dirt as it dribbled into his mouth. His head, too, felt like it had been split open. Then strong arms encircled him, picking him up bodily and hoisting him onto another horse. He was too weak to sit up and slumped along the horse's back, his face resting in its mane.

"Is it him?" someone asked.

One of the men, the bandits, lifted his head. Through the light of the flaming swords, Robb squinted at his new captors.

"Could be. It's hard to tell."

His face was familiar. Very familiar. But no… he was dead. He went south with his Lord Father and never came back. He was sent to bring justice to Gregor Clegane and met his end. But he looked so familiar…

"Harwin?" Robb's voice rasped.

The man smiled. "It is you, isn't it? What name did you give Meribald?"

"Cley Cerwyn," Robb answered, relief washing away his pain. "Harwin, is it you?"

The man swiped at Robb's face, rubbing away the blood and the dirt.  _He doesn't recognise me,_  Robb thought. The flaming swords came closer. Eye-patch was scrutinising him, while red-robes kept his distance. The archer, Anguy, stepped forward with a dirk.

"Shave that beard off him," he suggested.

It seemed the gods had stopped punishing him, as the man he thought was Harwin smiled brightly. "No need, Anguy. This is him, lads. This is Robb Stark, King in the North."

Robb could have laughed at hearing himself being called that. But when he tried to correct them, he spat blood down the horse's flanks and passed out cold.

* * *

Time stood still, every face Margaery could see was momentarily frozen as if they'd all been turned to stone. Incomprehension and disbelief etched in every expression. In this moment of suspended animation, all she could see was Joffrey turning purple in the face, the blood trickling from the corners of his mouth and his wide, bulging bloodshot eyes as he choked his final breaths. He had clawed at his throat and cried for his mother, gargling on vomit and bile. All the while, she stood there transfixed by the horror unfolding before her.

It is all for the best, she tried to tell herself. He was a tyrant causing misery to the realm, tearing up the land without even intending to. Even if he did have a mind of his own it'd only make him more dangerous. Joffrey twitched and frothed, his mother screaming at everyone and no one in particular, Tyrion stood rooted to the spot clutching the cup and Margaery herself, unable to move, unable to think straight. She thought that she would have to feign horror, but it came easily now. This was horror; this was hell.

"Seize him!" the Queen mother screamed, spittle flying from her mouth. "Seize him!"

 _Who?_  Margaery wondered. The spell broke and guards descended on Tyrion. The guests stirred back into life and all hell finally broke loose.

Margaery's head spun like a top, the ground pitching beneath her feet. She had to grab on to her father, who'd climbed to his feet beside her before she fell down. Lord Mace held her back, a father comforting his panic-stricken daughter.

 _Sansa!_  If they were arresting Tyrion, it was only logical that they arrest his wife as well. The hairnet. The bastard hairnet. Recalling that moment in the sept, she remembered the poisoned amethysts winking in the morning light. They had to get that hairnet back before Sansa was marched off to the black cells. Margaery pushed away from her father, stumbling in a daze through the crowds. Tyrion was still there, being wrestled by guards who so easily overpowered him.

"What's happening?" Margaery called, but no one was paying attention to her now. "Please, someone help my lord husband!"

Joffrey was beyond help now, but she needed to put on a show all the same. She wound through the crowds, teary eyed and white in the face, feeling sick to the stomach. All the while, her keen golden-brown eyes sought out the Stark girl.

"The Stark girl!" a man's voice boomed over the commotion and she turned to see Tywin towering over the panicked mass. "Someone find and secure the Stark girl!"

Margaery had to get to Sansa before he did. She hitched up her skirts and ran back through the throne room and out into the keep. If she could find Sansa she could get the hairnet back and possibly even get the girl to safety. She headed for Maegor's, thinking Sansa – in a blind panic – would have headed for her rooms to barricade herself in.

She took the steps up Maegor's two at a time, until she reached Sansa's room only to find the door wide open and the chamber within in chaos. Bedsheets were strewn across the floor, the bed upturned. But her clothes were gone. Sandor Clegane's old kingsguard cloak was gone. The one Sansa had kept and dyed a deep green colour and stitched in a hood. She had told her about it, once.

Just on the off chance that Sansa had left the hairnet behind, she had a quick look through the things that had been left behind. An old book of romance stories, a history book, some sewing needles and other bits and pieces. Nothing even remotely resembling a hairnet. She cursed softly as she looked about the abandoned room, before closing the door gently behind her.

* * *

"You shouldn't have run from Septon Meribald." There was a note of admonishment in Harwin's voice. "The night you woke up and he realised you were a Northerner, he came straight to us. No one knows the land like us and Meribald, so he knows where to find us. And when he told us he had one Cley Cerwyn in his care, I was most curious. Last I heard of him he'd been killed by the Ironborn. So, I thought, either Cley is alive somewhere in search of his family, or someone's using his name to hide their real identity. And if stray Northerners are hiding their identities, I make it my business to know why."

Harwin looked into the fire as he spoke. After letting Robb bathe in a river, the Brotherhood had cobbled together some clothes for him and brought him high up a hill to the cave they were in now. A makeshift bed had been prepared, from blankets and furs, in the back where he could rest without being disturbed. The opening to the cave was disguised by overhanging grasses that trailed the entrance like an awning. Even Robb hadn't noticed the opening until they were upon it properly.

They had fed him and given him clean water to drink. Now he curled up under the furs and wanted to sink into his own bitter self-recrimination again. Only Harwin, the last person in the world he expected to see, was talking. He was the sole survivor of the northern men who were sent to bring Gregor Clegane to justice. In the intervening year or so, they had added to their motley brotherhood to create a band of outlaws.

"Even if Meribald had told me he was sending the Brotherhood, I'd have run for my life," he said. "I had no idea you were part of it. Why didn't you come back and find me as soon as I took the Riverlands?"

Harwin laughed drily. "I'm rather pleased I didn't, with all due respect my lord."

Robb had to give him that. Rather an outlaw than butchered at the Twins.

"We had your sister, Arya," Harwin continued. "Beric and Thoros brought her in and I almost didn't recognise her. But, Gods forgive me, Sandor Clegane stole off with her and I haven't seen her since. I'll never forgive myself if he's harmed her-"

"No," Robb cut in. "No, Clegane brought her to me at the Twins on the night of the wedding. I'd have been cut down with the rest inside the hall, had they not showed up and called me away."

"So, that's how you survived," Harwin murmured. He looked up from the flames, meeting his gaze momentarily. "We found your mother, Lady Catelyn-"

Robb jolted, thinking his mother alive somewhere, that somehow she had escaped. But Beric cut in, saying Harwin's name in a manner that suggested he had said too much.

"Tell me," Robb said. "Where is she?"

"The bastards cut her throat to the bone," Harwin said. "Then they threw her body into the Green Fork. Your wife was killed. Dacey Mormont was run through with a sword. Manderly's sons were murdered the same way. Smalljon Umber's another among the dead. Greatjon and Marq Piper, along with your uncle Edmure, are all captives at the Twins."

They had been his personal guard and each name came like a punch to the gut. Meanwhile, Harwin came to Beric's way of thinking and stopped his talk of the wedding. They called it the Red Wedding.

"Get some sleep, my lord," he urged Robb. "Your father will rise from his grave and hunt me down should any harm come to you-"

Robb laughed bitterly. "My father would disown me now and well you know it. For how many centuries did the Starks hold Winterfell? And I am the one who lost it. I lost the whole of the North." He composed himself again, trying to rein in his emotions. "Arya was caught up in the massacre. Have you seen her since the wedding? I told Clegane to get her to Riverrun."

Harwin shook his head. "But if Arya's at Riverrun we'll soon find out. We'll take you the rest of the way ourselves. Have no fear now, my lord. The Freys won't be able to touch you, nor the Boltons."

Robb curled up under the furs, covering his shame and his face. For the first time since leaving Riverrun for the last time, he felt safe. All the same, it was a hollow feeling that only added to his guilt as he thought of the many dead. His wife and his mother among them. He knew he would never know another moment of peace again.

* * *

 

 

Thanks to everyone who left comments and kudos, I really appreciate it. Thank you! 


	4. Puppets

Ravens took flight from the Maester's Tower. A flurry of dark wings beating against the afternoon sky. Margaery once heard an old saying about ravens, but she had forgotten what it was now. Snapped out of her pensive mood, she watched the birds swoop out of sight as they carried news of Joffrey's death far and wide. Had they flown for Renly? That night was so chaotic, she could barely remember. They had certainly flown for Robb Stark and even for Balon Greyjoy. But now they flew for Joffrey … the worthiest of them all for such a dark and mortal honour.

The ease and grace with which kings died alarmed her. A matter of months ago, there were five of them. And now, with Stannis gone even from Dragonstone, there were none unless one counted plump little Tommen. Cersei may not have had her hand stuck up Tommen's arse, but he was still every inch her puppet. He did her bidding and he spoke her words and was a long way off from growing the spine he needed to stand up to her. How the realm would bleed while its king was a boy.

When the ravens vanished, she turned back toward the Maidenvault where her Grandmother held court. Her guards, Left and Right, stood over her, silent and stony faced as always. Everyone else tiptoed around her, kept constantly sheepish and jittery by that infamously barbed tongue. Olenna banished them all with a clap of her wizened hands when she noticed Margaery's approach from behind the rose trellises.

"Margaery, my dear, we shall take tea inside," she declared. Her code for when they spoke in strictest of secrecy.

She raised a smile. "I would like that."

Left and Right were left guarding the door. As nameless as they were, and Olenna never troubled herself to find out what they were really called, they were solid and trustworthy. None would enter on their watch.

The Maidenvault: a pretty name for what was a prison in which Baelor the Blessed kept his unfortunate womenfolk lest they should lead him into carnal temptation. The sept that bore his name now played host to the corpse of another King who had scorned the women in his life. It felt fitting in more ways than one. But, the Maidenvault was more than adequate for Margaery's needs. A spacious home within the Red Keep, central to everything with its own gardens and terraces overlooking the Blackwater.

Meanwhile, she escorted her grandmother deep within, the old lady leaning on her arm as they hobbled through the halls. They reached a solar, well away from the main entrance, with no places for little birds to hide. Outside the window was the curtain wall and a sheer drop into the Blackwater. Unless those little birds really had wings, they had no hope.

"I have been unable to locate the hairnet," Margaery said as they settled by the fire. "Sansa must have taken it with her."

Olenna stifled a laugh. "I don't know why you're so worried about it. Do you think I would have been so foolish as to use something that could be traced back to House Tyrell?"

"I know," Margaery replied, trying to keep her tone even. "I know all that. But still I feel as if we should get it and destroy it. While it exists, I cannot rest."

For a brief moment, Olenna held her gaze. Sharp as ever, but without malice or mocking. "My dear, even if I stripped to my name day gown and danced around Cersei singing  _"it was me! It was me!"_ her determination to blame Tyrion would render her selectively deaf to my confessions. What makes you think her finding Sansa with a poisoned hairnet will turn her attentions to us? If anything, it would only serve to validate her convictions all the more. In the meanwhile, Sansa Stark could be anywhere."

"She's heading for Riverrun," Margaery cut in. "The same castle our army has been commanded to take back for the Lannisters. Loras and Garlan are already preparing to leave."

Olenna skipped a beat. It was only a fleeting look of surprise, but she could tell her grandmother didn't know Sansa had gone there.

"What makes you say that?"

"Her sister is there," Margaery answered. "Loras told me the other day that Arya was taken to Riverrun. Tyrion knew as well and would have told Sansa."

They were supposed to be laying siege to Riverrun right at that moment, but Joffrey's death had delayed them. In three days, the funeral would take place and only then would Loras and Garlan leave for the Riverlands.

Olenna took a moment to process the information, her wizened brow knotted. "If Arya is at Riverrun, who's that girl being sent North to marry Roose Bolton's son?"

"What?" Now Margaery felt herself being thrown off-guard. "Everyone thought Arya was dead. Was she captured by the Freys?"

"No, child," Olenna answered. "She was here all along. Baelish had her hidden in one of his whorehouses and now he's seen fit to marry her off to the newly legitimised Ramsay Bolton."

 _Curious,_  Margaery thought to herself. "So, Roose Bolton is now Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell and his bastard son has been legitimised and named his heir. He has a new Stark bride to validate his claim, so they have the North all sewn up." She allowed herself a deep sigh. "If only half of what Sansa told me about Arya is true, Ramsay Bolton's going to have his work cut out in taming her."

"If only half of what they tell me about Ramsay Bolton is true, 'cut it out' is exactly what he will do to her," Olenna tersely replied. "Anyway, he has the wrong Stark girl. Sansa has the greater claim. She is Ned Stark's eldest, trueborn daughter. Gods, if we had acted sooner we could have gotten her to Highgarden and used her ourselves."

Margaery chafed against the word 'used', but she didn't let it show. Sometimes, she looked at people and wondered whether they remembered that the puppets they played with were other human beings with minds of their own. More and more often, she felt herself slipping into that world and slowly, she turned into one of them. It made her uncomfortable, but it had to be done. The game had to be played she'd rather be the puppet master than the puppet.

She swallowed and found her mouth dry. "Now that Sansa is so tragically about to be plunged into widowhood, and she's wanted for regicide, would there be worth in us finding her? If we succeed in bringing down House Lannister, we will need all the help we can get. And if Cersei knew-"

"It would be best if Cersei never finds out," Olenna retorted. "But the North is in disarray. True, most houses are still loyal to the Starks, others have gone to the Boltons and many are split down the middle. With so much chaos and confusion, it may well benefit us if we have the key to stabilisation in the region – the sweet and kind Sansa Stark. Many men would take up arms to defend such a Lady. She appeals to their foolish side."

Margaery laughed. "I suppose she does."

And Sansa had been her friend. True, she had been sent to befriend Sansa hoping to win her for Willas, bringing them the North – should they ever need it. But she soon found herself warming to the girl and she had begun to care and she cared still.

"Do you think that you, also, could appeal to the foolish side of the Tully's?" asked Olenna. "If you go with your brothers to negotiate a settlement, you could find out if Sansa is there, get that wretched hairnet back and, possibly, even deliver the keys of Riverrun to Cersei while you're about it."

"Me?" she asked, surprised. "If you trust in my abilities to reach a peaceful settlement, then I would gladly go."

"Loras and Garlan will be with you," Olenna assured her. "And a host of one and a half-thousand. You'll be living in siege conditions, so you'll bloody love that. And if that castle surrenders, make sure you get Sansa and get her to Highgarden. We might be able to make use of her. When the Lannisters finally come crashing down, we would do well to make peace with their enemies."

"And just about the entire North are their enemies," Margaery continued. "What about Arya? If she's here, we would do well to protect her, too. Restoring one of the Ned Stark's daughters would win us friends in the North. Restoring both would be better yet."

Olenna thought about it for a while, weighing up the options. "True. And if you have Arya with you, then Brynden Tully will have no choice but to come out of his castle and see for himself."

"How will the Queen react if her great northern marriage falls through?"

"She barely cares what happens in the North now that the Boltons are in control," Olenna explained. "It was Baelish who arranged the match, not Cersei. Cersei had no idea Arya was even still in the capital."

"So, Baelish won't be happy if his puppet bride is snatched away from under him?" she ventured, growing hopeful that she could ruin his game. "Baelish knows what we did to Joffrey, but is equally as culpable as us. Would he betray us?"

"He cannot, not without implicating himself. Besides, there's ways of going about this without him finding out it was us," Olenna replied. "She can always escape and vanish into thin air. Regardless, make no fuss, my dear. If you can manage to capture the girl, then do. But I would rather you focus on Sansa. She's the one you need. Arya is expendable, to put no finer point on it."

Cold, but true. "I suppose you're right. Are there any assurances that I can offer Lord Brynden in return for the surrender or Riverrun? Surely, if we bring about the fall of House Lannister, it will serve us best to restore the Tullys and gain the support of the Riverlands. But Tully won't take my word for it. He will want something in return. Something more than his lost great niece. The only thing we have going for us is that the Red Wedding was none of our doing."

Olenna paled. "As for that … butchery…" For once, words failed her and she had to pause to regain her composure. "We cannot afford to let on to anyone what we're about, what we're really seeking to do. Tell him nothing, but try to win his trust. In the meantime, your wedding to the child King is being negotiated. Escape while you can and make the most of this all too-brief respite."

If she never wed again, it would be too soon for Margaery. At nights, she still dreamed of Joffrey and his swelling, purple face. She could still see the fear in his bloodshot eyes as the breath was choked out of him as the Strangler did its work. Marriage was a very unfortunate state of affairs.

* * *

The Brotherhood were like ghosts. They materialised, soundless and effortless, out of thin air. They ambushed, assaulted and leapt down from the boughs of trees, descending on their foe like the wind. And, from what Robb could see, they genuinely distributed their spoils among the smallfolk. They stopped at Inn where the proprietor had taken in orphans – orphans his war had made – and was raising them as her own with the help of the Brotherhood.

They never stayed more than one night in the same place. They were constantly moving. Always on the side-roads, away from main thoroughfares. Often, they had nowhere to stay at all and made do with sheltering beneath trees. On such nights, Robb lay awake and listened to the howling of the wolfpack and the patter of rain against the overhead canopy of leaves. It was cold and constantly wet, to the point where he never thought to be properly dry again.

All the while, his injuries still played up. Both places where the crossbow quarrels had hit him reopened, all of Septon Meribald's good work coming undone. He refused to complain, not after seeing the devastation endured by others. After the massacre, he could only think of his mother, wife and unborn child. Then the men he had lost. Now that well of guilt was expanding still, to accommodate the orphans and widows and the displaced elderly who had been chased off their lands and forced to seek sanctuary elsewhere.

By the time they forded the Blue Fork and they were on the final stretch of their journey to Riverrun, the infection was back. He was left feverish and shaking again, weak and struggling to keep up with his companions. Only the knowledge that they were trying to outrun Walder Frey's army kept him going. They would be coming to lay siege to Riverrun, the Lannisters would be coming up from the south to do the same. And he had to get home before any of them did. If he lost any more time, he would be too late.

The nearer he got to Riverrun, the more acute his fears became.

"What happens if we reach Riverrun and find the place surrounded by lions already?" he asked, one night. They had set up camp in the woods five miles from Riverrun, under the cover of trees.

Harwin was with him, as always. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

"But, what if it does?" Robb persisted.

"There are other ways in," Harwin pointed out. "There's a water gate and you've proved yourself a strong swimmer already."

"Or, I could stay with you."

Harwin hesitated, before giving their camp fire a thoughtful poke with a stick. "And why would you want to stay with us?"

Robb had been giving it some serious thought for days now. "Because I've seen what you do, the people you're helping. If it hadn't been for the war, these people wouldn't be in this situation to begin with. What better way to make a difference than by giving up my lands and titles to help them get their lives back? I can make it right again."

He remembered Harwin as a stocky man, but clean shaven. Now he wore a thick beard and he was thinner, showing the privations of his new lifestyle. Robb was not deterred.

"You misunderstand us, my lord," he now replied. "We protect the smallfolk with the means we have available to us. The means you have available to you are the means to restore order from above."

Robb rolled his eyes. "Just because I'm highborn-"

"It's not that," Harwin broke him off. He always did speak boldly. "Beric's a fucking Highborn, my lord, and here he is: slumming it with the commonest of us."

"Then what? If Beric can do it, so can I. I can help you. You know I can fight."

"I don't doubt your abilities, my lord-"

"I'm not your lord," Robb cut in, defensively. "I'm nobody's lord. I have nothing. I am one of them."

He gestured to the Riverlands at large, meaning the displaced smallfolk that now populated it. To his annoyance, Harwin laughed loudly. Wolves howled in response, as if they found Robb's ideas for a new future hilarious too.

"You can't give up being Lord Eddard Stark's eldest trueborn son," said Harwin, good naturedly. "Listen, my lord, and listen well. You could join us, you're probably a better fighter and general than all of us. But you can't use the suffering of these people as an easy way to assuage your guilt. Not when you could be doing so much more."

Robb felt himself reddening in anger. "That is not what I am doing and you know it. I want to help, I want to join you, permanently and put it all right."

"You're not listening, boy!" Harwin spoke in a low growl, a feral glint in his grey eyes. "The best you can do is put this right is by regrouping what's left of your forces, regaining your health and your strength, and liberating the Riverlands and the North as soon as you can. That is how you can help. Your tore the land asunder, but the Freys and the Lannisters will do a lot worse and well you know it. Don't let them. Don't just cut and run. Fight and fight again."

Robb simmered down, turning away from Harwin to look into the flames of the camp fire. "And how am I supposed to do that? I have no armies, no bannermen, I don't even know if my little sister is alive."

Harwin was thoughtful again, rubbing his bearded chin. "I wish I could tell you. But I cannot. I knew your father, and remember him as fondly as I remember my own father. He had faith in you, and so do I."

Robb almost laughed aloud, but it made his injuries cry in pain. "And what do you think my father would make of me now?" he asked, bitterly. "The Starks have ruled the North since time immemorial, until me. Until I fucked up and lost it all in the space of a few months. And that's what hurts the most, Harwin. I can't stop thinking of how father would be looking at me now. I remember when I was child, and I did something that disappointed him, he had this look in his eye. Some fathers would shout and rage, others would whip their children's arses to the bone. But mine just got that look in his eyes, the silence that thickened around him, and you knew you'd fucked up completely. Seeing that look in his eye was more painful than any beating."

He almost broke down, but fought to keep his emotions in check. Something Harwin seemed to understand as he swung himself in front of Robb, shielding him from the others in the camp. Their faces were inches apart.

"And that's it," said Harwin. "That's why I can't let you join us, Robb. Because every day you're going to live with the shame of dishonouring your father. Your debt is to him and your forebears and the North. That is your fight, so fight it."

It was so easily said and words are wind. But he was right.

"The Northern Lords will never accept me back," he said, morosely. "I let them down. Their men died for me."

"They knew that when they called their banners for you," Harwin pointed out. "They knew that when they called you King in the North when you were barely fifteen."

"They didn't know they'd be sold out to the Ironborn and slaughtered at a wedding feast," Robb interjected. "And my brothers are dead, my sister is a Lannister, Arya could be anywhere."

"Win back your losses and you'll win back the respect of the North," Harwin said. "With all due respect, my lord, you're making excuses. By all means, hide away and let the shame and guilt eat at you day-by-day. Grow into an angry, bitter old man. But do it alone. Otherwise, count your losses and regroup and fight for your honour."

It was then that it occurred to him. He remembered that rain drenched night at Hag's Mire, when he signed his will and legitimised Jon. The breath caught in his throat, even though his cause was still hopelessly bleak. He sat up, looked Harwin in the eye.

"Jon is my heir," he said. "I legitimised him. I sent my will to him at Castle Black. He's every bit a Stark as I am now, and if the Lords won't accept me, they'll accept him."

"Where is your will now?"

Robb had no idea. The guard he sent sailed on a ship called the Myraham, it originally came from Oldtown. That was all he knew. His hope faded, but didn't die altogether.

* * *

"Ser Ilyn Payne is outside, your grace. He has the girl." Megga curtsied sweetly as she announced their guests.

Margaery didn't even try to suppress her sigh of relief as she set down the book she'd been trying to read. Although getting an illiterate mute to carry out this highly sensitive mission had been an undoubtedly good idea, she was still worried that the brothel keeper might give him a hard time. However, she should have known, no one dared defy the King's justice, even if he walked into an establishment with a scrap of parchment bearing only a name and no seal.

Shaking out her skirts and taking some gold coins from her purse, she went to greet the grim-faced headsman. He was a tall man, with cold, dead eyes and showed not even a trace of emotion as she approached him. All the same, she smiled brightly and thanked him warmly.

"Take this coin as your payment, ser Ilyn," she said. "We thank you most kindly."

Turning to Megga, she added. "Cousin, be so kind as to give Ser Ilyn some of our Arbour gold. A fine vintage, if it please you. Show him out and then send Ser Loras in."

Ser Ilyn left, taking his foul stench with him but leaving behind a trembling, terrified girl. She was dressed in a full-length cloak that completely covered her, hood and all, and it rendered her shapeless. All the same, Margaery could see her shaking like a leaf. From beneath the hood, the occasional sniff and sob emanated.

"Lady Arya," said Margaery softly, trying to peer beneath the deep hood. "Lady Arya, I would be honoured if you would join me for some wine and lemon cakes." She laughed and added: "This time, you won't have to fight Sansa for them."

The girl hiccuped and sobbed harder. Desperate for a way to soothe the girl, Margaery steered her into the Maidenvault to get her out of the rain. Although she flinched from her touch, Arya obediently followed and allowed Margaery to remove her cloak. Underneath that, she was dressed in a simple linen shift and stood with her head down and her shoulders hunched, her arms wrapped protectively around the middle. She was shivering from cold.

"Lady Arya, please sit by the fire." She gestured to an empty chair, but the girl still didn't look up.

The impression she had of Arya Stark was something half-wild, but this girl was timid and dared not speak a word. So much so, that Margaery had to guide her into the chair and again the girl flinched and shied from her. Then, Margaery caught sight of her back through the shift she wore. It was criss-crossed with scars, some old and faded, many fresh and raw looking. The child had been whipped mercilessly. Small wonder she trembled so.

"Who did this?" Margaery asked, her voice low. "Arya, I am to marry the King and will soon be Queen. Tell me who did this and I will see that receive thrice what they gave to you."

The girl's head snapped up, looking at her at last. She was such a pretty child, with large, deep brown eyes and a round face framed by thick chestnut curls. But those eyes were filled with terror.

"Men," she stammered, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Just men."

Margaery softened, letting her anger pass lest the girl should become even more terrified. "Do you know their names? Was it Baelish?"

She violently convulsed at the sound of his name. So much so, Margaery gathered her up in her arms and held her gently.

"Hush child," she cooed. "Now is not the time for revenge, I understand. Now is the time to get you back to your family. Sansa misses you so much; she talks about you all the time, child. Can you imagine her face when she sees you again?"

Arya responded by breaking down in tears, her small and emaciated body wracked with heaving sobs. When Loras appeared minutes later, she motioned him to wait outside until the girl had composed herself. Once she was wrapped up in one of Margaery's own cloaks and she'd had a gulp or two of wine, Loras was beckoned back inside.

"Is this Lady Arya?" he asked in a whisper.

"Look at Ser Loras, child," she beckoned.

To her surprise, Arya did so and met her brother's gaze with a glimmer of hope shining in her wide eyes. Loras, meanwhile, studied her intently for what felt an age. There was recognition in his eyes, at least.

"I saw you, didn't I?" he asked. "You were sat next to Sansa at the Tourney of the Hand."

Arya almost buckled with relief. "A r-rose. Y-you g-g-gave my sister a red rose."

"Yes, I remember you now," he said, then turned to Margaery. "This is definitely Arya Stark. She was there when I beat the Mountain. She screamed when he killed his horse."

"I remember you so well, ser," Arya said, a little bolder now that someone had verified her identity. "You were the most gallant knight there."

"That's very kind of you, my lady," Loras replied. "And now that we have found you, you have my word as a knight that no one will hurt you again."

The girl was almost hyperventilating. "R-ramsay-"

"Ramsay be damned," Margaery cut her off. Not only had she been grossly abused, she was about to be wed to the son of the man who murdered her entire family. "Listen carefully, you must return to the brothel for another two days. The morning after next, at dawn, two of our men will come for you. They will give the names "Left" and "Right". Don't resist them. Don't be afraid. They are working for us and will bring you to the city gates, where I will be waiting for you. From there, we go on to Riverrun."

The wedding to Ramsay Bolton was some way off, Margaery knew, and Baelish hadn't been seen since the King was poisoned. With luck, it might even be a few weeks before anyone noticed Arya was missing. However, the girl looked terrified at the prospect of being sent back to that place. She was crying again, shaking badly.

"Please, your grace, don't make me go back!"

Margaery had no choice. Even though Ilyn could say nothing and sign nothing, it could still fall back on them.

"Arya," she said, cupping the girls tear-stained face. "You have survived until now because you're strong and determined. You're wild and free-spirited, just as Sansa told me. Don't let them break you. Remember who you are."

Silenced, the girl nodded.

"Very good," said Margaery. "Now take these treats and go back. Tell the brothel keeper Ser Ilyn only wanted you for a courtly guest."

Seconds later, the girl was back out of the door and Margaery had never felt so appalled before in her life.

* * *

Robb could hardly breathe. He'd been shoved onto a cart and had sacks of wheat, grain and barley packed on top of him, neatly arranged so he could just about breathe. The produce was donated by a farmstead still loyal to House Tully. His vision, however, was restricted to nothing more than the sacks that weighed him down. A donkey pulled the cart, bumping and jolted over every bump in the road, until they reached the drawbridge of Riverrun.

Harwin led the donkey, dressed in roughspun and waving a white flag so the guards wouldn't shoot him on sight. All the same, the challenge was issued.

"Who goes there?"

"Harwin," came the reply. "A Northman once sworn to Lord Eddard of House Stark. I come with a gift from the Brotherhood Without Banners."

"Outlaws!" one of the guards sneered.

"We are king's men through and through," Harwin answered. "I would speak with Lord Brynden, the Blackfish."

Robb willed the ordeal to be over. His rib cage couldn't take much more. But he couldn't risk showing himself, they needed to be sure that Brynden still held the castle. Somewhere, rusted chains groaned into life as the drawbridge was finally lowered. Robb only wished he could see what was happening. After what felt like an age and a day, voices spoke once more.

"You're settling in for a long siege, lads. I'd say the Blackfish will be grateful for the grain."

"We'll see about that," answered another man.

Above him, Robb heard a sack being cut and grain spilling out.

"I come under a banner of peace," Harwin continued. "Please, let me pass. You can see I am alone."

More deliberation, before finally a guard answered. "Come on in then. No further than the yard. The Blackfish is armed and waiting."

The donkey move off and Robb was once more being jolted and bumped along. A sensation made worse when they reached the cobbles and he tried to keep silent. His senses strained as they came to a halt in the courtyard, and he held his breath.

"What have you got there?"

Robb almost cried at the sound of his great-uncle's voice.

"Two sacks of wheat, my lord," Harwin answered, pulling them off and dumping them on the ground. "Two sacks of barley… Two sacks of grain…"

Robb's vision suddenly cleared as the sacks where pulled off him, giving him an unimpeded view of the sky above. Still deep in the cart, no one else could see him. Until…

"And finally, my lord, one King in the North."

Harwin leaned into the cart and hauled Robb out bodily, setting him carefully down on the cobbles. Robb's knees almost buckled, his legs barely holding his weight. Meanwhile, the first person he saw was Brynden, staring at him in open-mouthed amazement. Robb steadied himself, grabbing the side of the cart before he fell.

"Robb!"

A small girl's shrill voice split the air.

"Uncle," he said, smiling crookedly. "Arya!"

She leapt on him, knocking him to the ground. Her skinny arms wrapped around his neck tightly, but Robb didn't mind the strangulation. He hugged her back, gripping her tightly.

"Little sister," he laughed. "Arya, thank the gods you're safe."

He pulled away to look at her properly. She still looked like a little boy.


	5. Flowers and Rivers

Once Robb had been bathed and fed, Maester Vyman came at him with a concoction of dreamwine and milk of the poppy. The last he remembered was putting up some feeble resistance, before coming around in the same chambers he'd occupied before the wedding. He couldn't even guess at how long he'd been asleep for. The lost time was an indeterminate abyss in which anything could have happened. It made him nervous.

Groggy from the medicines, he climbed out of bed. Stiff-limbed and weak kneed, he managed to cross the room and open the shutters over the window. Outside was darkness, but beyond the chamber door footsteps hurried away at the sound of him banging a shutter by mistake. There were guards on the door, he realised. He also realised he was naked, so he pulled a nearby robe over his shoulders and fell into a chair beside the hearth. The fire was still burning, showing that people had been attending him as he slept.

Weeks on the run in the Riverlands had left his nerves on edge. Even now that he was back in Riverrun, surrounded by thick castle walls, reinforced by outer-walls, he was still on edge. Every moving shadow, every small sound from beyond his windows, set his heart racing. He drew his knees to his chest, perching his bare feet on the edge of the chair, so he was completely covered by the robe and as small as he could be.

He stayed like that until the guard returned to his door, bringing company with him. As he rightly guessed, Brynden had been roused from sleep and brought to his room. The door opened, letting in a long shaft of lantern light, the Blackfish was dark against its shine. But Robb could tell it was him, with Arya bundled up in a thick blanket peering out from behind him. Seeing him up and about, she darted into his room and flung her arms around his neck again.

"She's been worried about you," said Brynden. "We both were."

He came into the room, setting the lantern down on the mantelpiece above the hearth. Its light combined with the fire to illuminate the whole chamber evenly.

"You've been asleep for two days," said Arya, finally letting him go again. "This is the second night."

Her blanket slipped from her shoulders, revealing the night gown she wore beneath.

"I'm sorry," he said, looking between them both. "I'm sorry for everything."

"The time for blaming yourself is passed," Brynden gruffly stated. "But your fever isn't; back to bed with you. I'll send the Maester in soon, but first we must talk."

"I don't want the Maester-"

"I wasn't asking," Brynden cut in. "And you need to heal."

"He's right, you know," said Arya.

"You're ganging up on me," Robb protested.

All the same, he did as his uncle bid and returned to bed. One thing he welcomed after weeks on the run was a feather bed and he thought he may as well make the most of it. Settled back in, Arya hopped up beside him, curling up under his arm and still wrapped in her blanket. She looked like a hedgehog curling into retreat. The chair he recently vacated was now pulled over to his bedside, where Brynden now sat in it. Whatever it was they needed to talk about, Robb could well see it would be no bedtime story.

"Joffrey's dead," Brynden declared. "The raven came shortly before you returned."

Robb made a sound half-way between a choke and a gasp of disbelief. "Dead! How?"

"Poisoned at his own wedding," Brynden replied. "Before you start turning cartwheels, listen for a moment."

A silence fell that set his nerves in motion again. "What?"

"It's Sansa," said Arya, darkly.

Forcibly married to Tyrion Lannister, a prisoner at the Red Keep, she would have been at that wedding. She would have been eating and drinking at the same table as them. How many others took the poison? Even though his sister felt lost to him already, he braced himself for more bad news.

"What about Sansa?"

"There's a warrant out for her arrest," said Brynden.

Robb breathed a sigh of relief. "I thought you were going to tell me she'd been killed too. And what do you mean a warrant? She's already a prisoner of the Lannisters."

"She escaped. As soon as the King was dead, she fled the capital. Her husband was captured and is standing trial for murder."

Arya piped up again. "One of the smallfolk that came to us said she killed Joffrey in the form of a wolf, then changed into a bat and flew away."

Despite the gravity of the situation, Robb laughed. They made his sweet, starry-eyed little sister sound more like Mad Danelle Lothston than the little Princess in waiting that he once knew.

"I think we can discount that rumour, little sister," he said. "But Sansa has never hurt so much as an insect before, never mind kill a king. She did not do this thing, I cannot believe it of her. Now she will die alone in the wilderness, or hunted down by Lannisters. She will not last a night on her own."

"She survived a lion's den already, nephew," Brynden pointed out. "I think you underestimate her. Besides, the Hound is already out searching for her; the Brotherhood, too."

"The Hound?" he said, aghast.

"It's all right, Robb. Sandor hated me and he still brought me safe to the Twins and then to Riverrun," said Arya. It was meant to be reassuring. "And from the way he talked about Sansa, I think he's a little bit in love with her. He'll definitely look after her. Even more than he did me, I bet."

All the same, he sent up a silent prayer that the Brotherhood found her first. Before he reminded himself that Sandor finding her first was a damn sight better than the Lannisters finding her first. During the short silence, in which Arya dozed off with her head resting on his shoulder, Robb thought of Sansa again.

She'd been a prisoner, forced to marry her enemy, she had been undoubtedly brutalised every time his army so much as advanced an inch. She had been made to suffer ever since their father had been murdered. He wondered how much it took for even the gentlest of souls to break. Perhaps, after all, she did kill Joffrey. A few Lysene "tear drops" in a cup of wine, a sleight of hand at a busy wedding feast … it was all so easy. And the source of an unhappy girl's torment was dead forever.

"Any day now and we're going to be under siege," Brynden said, cutting through Robb's thoughts. "We need to establish a few rules."

Robb drew a deep breath and braced himself. He had a feeling these rules would only apply to him. "Very well, uncle."

"Everyone outside this castle thinks you're dead," he began. "And I want it to stay that way for as long as possible. Tytos Blackwood still flies the Direwolf banner over Raventree Hall, so he will be informed in due course. But for now, it's for us and the Brotherhood alone. Which means, when this castle comes under siege, you are confined to these chambers. The windows must remain shuttered at all times, in case anyone should see you. If you must go outside, you can visit the inner courtyards only, where no one can see you. Tell me first, and I will double check to make sure it's safe. Do you understand?"

For a moment, there was nothing he could say. "You mean I'm a prisoner?"

"You're protected," the Blackfish corrected him. With a sigh, he ran an agitated hand through his iron-grey hair. "This is not what I want, Robb. If word gets out that you're alive, the Lannisters, Freys, Tyrells and the gods know who else will be swarming over the Riverlands before we can so much as blink. I don't want those bastards knowing you're alive until you meet them in the field of battle, back at your full military strength. You'll give them a fucking heart attack."

He couldn't pretend to be happy about it, but he understood. The confinement would chafe. But too many Lannisters and Freys knew him. If Jaime Lannister was sent back to organise the siege he would be in real trouble. He lay back against the pillows, resigned to his fate. "Very well, uncle. I'll do as I'm told."

* * *

If Margaery harboured any hope of Arya opening up to her as their journey progressed, she was thus far disappointed. Their carriage clattered and bumped along the Kingsroad, slow at first but gaining speed as they entered the open countryside. While the girl had been giddy with relief at first, she seemed to think she would be left abandoned on the roadside. But the profuse thanks had settled into a silence that grew more worrying the closer they got to the Riverlands.

She sat opposite Margaery, huddled deep in her cloak. It was the same one she had been wearing the night she was smuggled out of the brothel and brought to the Maidenvault. Meanwhile, all Margaery could think to do was settle her and win her trust with comfits, lemon cakes and an endless stream of soft, comforting words.

"We're in the Crownlands now," she said on the fourth day of their journey. "Far from King's Landing, where neither Lannister nor Bolton can reach you. You do know you're safe now, don't you?"

Arya drew back her hood a little, showing her chestnut curls. Still pale and her face still emaciated and drawn, brown eyes bloodshot from crying. Margaery was at a loss for what to do to convince the girl that all was well. But even miles from the capital, the girl looked like she was being carried off to the gallows.

Arya managed a nod. "Thank you, your grace."

"Call me Margaery, please," she said, hoping the familiarity would help break down the barriers between them. She reached over and gripped the girls small hand in her own, squeezing it for reassurance. "I understand that you must still be grieving over the deaths of your parents and brothers. While I say I understand it, I cannot begin to imagine what it must be like. But you are not alone in this world. And while I do not know your great-uncle, Ser Brynden Tully, I know him by reputation. He's a fierce warrior, Lady Arya, he'll protect you with his life."

The girl flinched at mention of Ser Brynden's name, where Margaery thought it would bring her comfort. But after years of being kept prisoner in a brothel, it was understandable that the girl now distrusted all men. She had been used, as well as "trained". Her body had been sold, her virginity gone already.

A week or two after leaving King's Landing, they reached Harrenhal. The Lannister lions now flew from the battlements, the Direwolves trampled into the dirt. To spare Arya the sight of Stark men hanging in gibbets over the castle gates, they gave the castle a wide berth and clung to the main road, even when setting up camp.

After seeing Arya safely to bed, Margaery joined her brothers in the main pavilion set up in a broad open field. Loras was standing guard outside, but Garlan was within and waiting to receive her.

"How stupid do you think Petyr Baelish is?" she asked him, by way of greeting.

"Not at all," he replied, handing her a cup of hot spiced wine. "And you'd be a fool to think he was, sister."

"Exactly," she said. "He's as clever as he is cunning, and he's more cunning than a devil."

Garlan was half-smiling, regarding her curiously. "And what's brought you to this revelation, dear sister. You said yourself, you knew well enough."

A bench had been set up near a brazier, which Margaery availed herself of. It was chilly this far north, with damp seeping in from the God's Eye and the endless rivers that gave this region its name. Garlan sat beside her, placing a protective arm around her shoulders.

"He had Arya Stark under his roof all this time," she said, recalling the child's sorry story. "Even as the younger daughter of a disgraced Lord paramount, Arya was valuable to him. Yet, he let men use her all the same."

Garlan shrugged his broad shoulders. "The Boltons don't seem to mind her, er, debasement. Although, in their situation, they cannot afford to be choosey. How did Cersei react when she found out Baelish had been keeping Arya in a whorehouse all this time, even when the Lannisters desperately needed Stark hostages to bring the Young Wolf to heel?"

"That's the other thing," said Margaery. "Cersei was fine with it. I'd have thought she would have been spitting wildfire."

Garlan fell silent, his golden-brown eyes reflecting the brazier as he directed his attention more toward it than his sister. She could tell he was thinking the same as her, but just couldn't seem to bring himself to say it. At least, not until after another few silent minutes of inward rumination.

"Has it occurred to you, sweet sister, that that is not Arya Stark?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

"Of course!" she retorted, laughing. "It occurred to me as soon as Grandmother mentioned it, back in the Maidenvault. But Loras says he remembers her from the Hand's Tourney, she was sitting by Sansa's side when he gave her a red rose. From what little she's said to me, she knows Winterfell well, she knows Stark history."

"She could have been schooled on that," Garlan pointed out. "I could learn about Stark history just from picking up a book, if I didn't already know it."

"Yes, but details, like the name of their ward and when he came to live at Winterfell, the Household staff and the castle's workings," she added. "She sounds Northern, she has the accent."

But there were other signs, too. The closer they got to Riverrun, the more fearful and timid the girl became. Relief at leaving the capital had soon turned to fear at the prospect of being reunited with her family. But that could be for all sorts of reasons. For the moment, she opted to stay silent and hope her suspicions proved wrong.

Meanwhile, they brought Loras in from the damp cold outside. The three Tyrells picked at a light supper eaten with plenty of hot spiced wine. With a siege to look forward to, they took what pleasure they could while they could. Their talk grew lighter, from the prospect of dealing with the Blackfish to the people they had left behind at Court.

"I'm surprised Grandmother isn't here," said Loras. "I'd wager she could barrel her way through those castle walls before sunrise, should the fancy take her."

"From what I hear, her and Brynden Tully would make quite a match," Garlan laughed. "Speaking of which, I hear Lysa Arryn is to be wed to Patyr Baelish before too long. Our outriders saw some Knights of the Vale making their way up to the Eyrie."

"It's a wonder anyone's getting married these days," said Margaery. "I've heard its bad for one's health."

She was about to retire for the night when the guards appeared suddenly at the awning of their pavilion. Two of them in full armour, wet and slick with rain, they held a struggling girl between them.

"Arya?" Margaery said, striding across the pavilion to meet them. She looked between the two guards, impatient and questioning. "What is all this?"

The two men exchanged a nervous glance before the one on the right answered: "Lady Stark tried to run away, my lady. We caught her as she ran into the woods."

Behind her, Loras and Garlan had come up to see what the problem was. All three of the Tyrells now quiet, with Margaery trying to ignore the tide of suspicion now welling up inside her. Without another word, she took Arya's hand and held it tenderly, willing her to settle. She did, with her head held low and her shoulders slumped in defeat.

"Sers, can you leave us, please?" she asked.

Sensing no danger from the terrified child, the men all left without hesitation. Meanwhile, Margaery and Arya remained where they were, kneeling before the brazier. She was soaked to the skin, with her brown hair dripping, hanging in wet tendrils down her shoulders. It was as pitiful sight as Margaery had ever seen.

"I think there's something you need to tell me," she said, gently tilting the girl's chin up so their eyes met.

She cringed, as if trying to shy away. The torment that clearly afflicted the girl intensified and Margaery hoped she'd just spit it out and end this now.

"Jeyne," she choked between sobs. "My name is Jeyne."

After a deep breath, Margaery smiled and laughed lightly to show she was not angry. "It's just as well you told me now, Jeyne. Or I'd have looked quite silly introducing you to Brynden Tully as 'Arya Stark'."

While her name had been a lie, the scars on her back and the abuse she suffered was all too real. It was no wonder she played along with this ridiculous folly to escape her captors and make a go of living in the wilds of the Riverlands. And while Margaery was genuinely not angry with her, she still had a problem on her hands. What to do with her. For now, she could only think to get the girl dry.

"Loras said he remembered you at the tourney," she said, leading her back to their own pavilion.

Now the truth was out, and she was no longer living a lie, Jeyne had composed herself. She just looked incredibly sheepish as she answered: "I was Sansa's best friend. We went everywhere together."

That made sense to Margaery, so she didn't question it. Poor Loras!

"Where is your home? Perhaps we might be able to take you back there."

"Winterfell was my home," she replied, sorrowful once more. "My father was Lord Stark's steward. He brought me south when Lord Eddard was made Hand of the King. He was killed in the fighting when Lord Stark was arrested."

And that explained the knowledge of Winterfell and its workings. A victim of circumstance, the girl was alone in the world. She had no value, except as a pawn in someone else's game. But what was Baelish playing at? Especially since he and Cersei knew this girl was an imposter. Whatever it was, Margaery resolved to worry about it some other time while she got the girl back into her own temporary tent home and into some dry clothes.

"Are you going to send me back?" she asked, worried. "If you do, I'll escape and I'll kill myself. I swear I will; I'll find a way."

Margaery drew her into a hug, soothing her again. "Hush, child. There will be no more of that talk. For now, you will accompany me to the Riverlands and I'll tell Lord Brynden you're my hand maiden. Your name will be Esme Flowers, the bastard daughter of a Highgarden steward. A kernel of truth to help you stick to the story. In the meantime, I will write to my mother and Garlan's wife. I am sure one of them will find a place for you in their household. Would you like that?"

For a moment, Jeyne looked like all her name days had come at once. She nodded eagerly. "Esme Flowers. I can remember that."

Margaery gave what she hoped was an encouraging smile. "Good girl. And all be well, I promise."

Except now, she had absolutely no bargaining chips to use with the Blackfish. Nothing but her own wits, at any rate.

* * *

While Robb had hoped his captivity wouldn't begin until after the siege had commenced, the Blackfish was taking no chances. 'Lannisters could come riding around the corner at any minute!' he insisted. They had spies watching the roads, even the Brotherhood had sworn to forewarn them of any armies marching up from the capital. Still, the Blackfish was not for turning. So Robb remained in his chambers, albeit several of them in a turret facing out over the rushing river. And, so far, he had been allowed to keep his windows open.

Nevertheless, the boredom would kill him long before starvation set in from any siege that might be happening. He slept frequently, with help from the Maester giving him dreamwine. His injuries recovered quickly and he even shook off the fever that had persisted since drinking dirty water during his flight from the Twins. Other than that, he was alone with his thoughts which soon turned sour.

He had spent one afternoon buried under the bedcovers, inconsolable with the grief he had kept hidden inside since the massacre happened. Throughout those long hours, he suspected people had called to his door, only to tiptoe away again when they heard the state he was in. But he couldn't stop. From grief, to anger, to unstoppable tears again. Eventually, he slipped into an exhausted sleep, spent and drained of all emotion. When he awoke the next morning, he knew he had to leave the past behind. The recent past, most of all. For better or for worse, he had survived. It meant he had a future worth fighting for.

Guessing that the siege hadn't yet begun, he opened the shutters on his windows and looked south. The sun was rising, turning the water of the rivers a liquid gold. Trout still leapt in the Green Fork, the wading birds still waded the shallows, taking flight on silent wings. Robb watched them go, feeling strangely at ease with the world just knowing that some of it carried on as usual.

The first person through his door that morning was Arya. She had a wooden sword in her hand and a bright smile on her face.

"Uncle Brynden's teaching me," she grinned. "I wish you could come too, I'm getting good and I want you to see."

This was too much. Arya had the run of the whole castle, while he remained cooped up. However, for her sake, he injected a little enthusiasm into his mood.

"That's good," he said, encouragingly. "Learn well, sister, and soon you'll be in my van."

Her reply was earnest. "I would, you know. I can fight as well as anyone."

"I don't doubt it, sister," he assured her. He then seized upon an idea. "And you can show me yourself if you get me out of here, one night."

Before the war, when they were children at Winterfell, she would have jumped at the chance. But war had made her cautious.

"You want me to sneak you out of the castle?" she asked, her brown tightening into a frown. "What if someone sees you and recognises you? It'll be Jaime Lannister and he'll tell the Queen-"

"Only to the courtyard, not actually out of the castle," he cut in. "Arya, come on. If you were locked up all day and night, you'd do the same."

"You're not locked up and Uncle Brynden is right, it's too dangerous," she said, growing stern. To emphasise her point, she poked him with her wooden sword.

Robb groaned aloud. "You're turning into Sansa – Ow!"

She had whacked him across the thigh with her sword at the mere suggestion.

"I am not, you stupid!"

He laughed, though. She was stung by the accusation, which meant she'd now have to prove to him she wasn't turning into her sister. He had her now. Arya knew it too, and she pointed the sword menacingly at him, trying with her might to sound serious and stern.

"The inner yards, where no one outside can see," she said. "And if anyone does, you're going right back inside and I'll tell Uncle Brynden to really lock you up. And throw the keys in the river."

"All right! All right!" he retorted, grabbing her around the middle and lifting her over his shoulders. "And don't tell me you wouldn't do the same if you're in my situation. You know you would. You'd jump out of the windows and risk breaking your legs."

He threw her on to the bed, where she bounced and squealed with laughter. She looked like the child she still was, just for a brief moment.

However, a chink of light penetrated his darkening world later that very day. The Blackfish came to his chambers, bearing good food and better news.

"It's the Tyrells," he said. "The Lannisters have sent the Tyrells to lay siege."

Robb had never met a single Tyrell before in his life and not a single Tyrell would know him. A crooked smile spread on his face as he sniffed a little more freedom on the horizon. True, a siege was still a siege. In that respect, they were all confined to the castle. But he could leave the keep, maybe even go down to the river gate and swim in the river, so long as he didn't venture farther than the walls and he took care to stay out of any firing line.

"It's safe for me to parlay with them, uncle," he said. "All I need is a false name."

Brynden shook his head. "You can't parley with them, they'll grow suspicious. From now on, you're my bastard son. I'll tell them you're my squire and cup-bearer. And your new name is … say it's Tristifer Rivers."

 _Tristifer_ , Robb thought. The Hammer of Justice himself. He almost laughed. "And my mother?"

"Just tell them you never knew her," Brynden replied. "It's something of a time-honoured tradition in the North."

He opened the window shutters a crack, just to see the road leading south. Already the golden roses of House Tyrell were visible in the distance. A great sea of them, wending north west. Golden roses, as far as his eye could see.


	6. Bastards and Beautiful Things

Only the scratching of a quill against parchment broke the silence in the room. With every word Robb wrote, he was conscious of the Tyrell army getting one step closer to the castle. One more word; one more forward step of the enemy. Therefore, lack of time and a growing sense of desperation dictated the tone of the letter he wrote.  _'Dear Jon, I'm not dead…'_  to the point, no explanations of how, when or why. Just a bald statement of fact.

Even as he continued writing, Arya melted grey wax in a small pan held over a candle flame. She looked tense, her knuckles white where she gripped the damp cloth wrapped around the handle. Not that he blamed her. Whenever he thought of the army now beginning to gather around Riverrun, his throat constricted as if a noose were slowly closing around his throat. He scrawled his signature in a hurry and took the melted wax to affix his seal.

His uncle took the letter, signed it as a formal witness, verifying everything that was said and affixed his own seal of blue wax embossed with a leaping trout. After that, the act of succession redrawn, stipulating that Jon was now heir presumptive of the North and henceforth freed from his Night's Watch vows. He knew he had no real authority to do it, but without Jon the Stark line could well be extinct.

"Don't forget his legitimisation," said Arya, sliding over another sheet of parchment.

But it was already signed, sealed and ready for delivery. His late mother would be furious, but this was no time to fret over the troubles of the dead.

"Harwin," he said, looking to the hooded man in the shadows. "It's time. Take these to Castle Black with all haste. I would recommend riding hard for Seagard and taking ship to Bear Island. But I don't know the situation with the Ironborn. If you deem it too risky, then by all means travel by land."

Harwin drew up his hood and sheathed a long, lethally sharp dirk at his hip. On the other, Robb knew, he wore a new sword of castle forged steel, but that was concealed by his full-length cloak – a gift from the castle seamstress. "Whatever it takes, your grace, this message will be in the hands of Jon Stark before you know it. None shall stand in my way."

Harwin was Winterfell's Master of Horse. His father was Master of Horse before him. Robb knew he could ride through seven hells and still be home in time for supper. But, after all that had befallen his house, worry and anxiety had become a natural state of being.

"Good luck," he bid the man.

With that, Harwin touched his fingers to his brow in a gesture of farewell before striding out into the hallway beyond. A black charger was harnessed and awaiting him in the courtyard below. Nervously, Robb glanced out of the window again to see the host of golden roses gathering below. In the middle of them, an ornate wheelhouse was ambling along at a leisurely pace. For a moment, he wondered who was in it.

"He should be gone before they block the exits," the Blackfish assured him.

"Yes." He was absent minded now.

A small hand folded around his own. "You've done what you can." Arya looked up at him, her grey eyes wide but with just a glimmer of dull hope remaining. "Even if the Night's Watch won't let him go, he'll defy them," she said, optimistically. "We're his real family, not the brothers of the Night's Watch. He'll do it for us. He'll do it for father, for Bran and for Rickon. And Sansa, too."

But what can he do? Robb wondered. He was just one man sworn to a life of celibacy in a brotherhood far, far away. Between Jon and them there was league upon leagues of hostile territory. And, the gods knew, they'd grown up seeing what happened to Night's Watch deserters.

"A raven came from Castle Black, not so long ago, from the Maester," said the Blackfish, jolting him out of his thoughts. "He said there's an army of dead men marching on the wall."

Robb frowned. "Dead men?"

"That's just silly," Arya said.

"Old Aemon Targaryen may be as ancient as the hills," Blackfish stated. "But 'silly' he certainly isn't. Be that as it may, it's not our fight. Whatever's happening north of the wall, the wall will hold them off."

Robb shrugged. "I suppose. It's stood for thousands of years, after all. Anyway, sounds like a euphemism to me. Whatever he means by 'dead men', I hope Jon can clear it up … if we see him again."

He turned back to the window, checking on the Tyrells. Still marching up the road, he was relieved to see. Harwin would surely be saddled up and ready to go by now? All the same, he strode out of the room and made haste to the gate tower overlooking the road north. The Blackfish was right beside him, with Arya jogging to try and keep up. They made it in time to see the black charger galloping off across the drawbridge, Harwin's new cloak billowing out behind him as he sped away before the advancing army.

"There he goes," he murmured.

"He'll make it," Arya said, determined. "I know he will. Then he'll come straight back and Jon will be with him."

Robb wished he shared her optimism.

"Arya," said the Blackfish. "My squire's down in the inner courtyard looking for a fight. Why don't you give him what he wants?"

She looked to Robb for approval, which he gladly gave. "Go, and knock him into the dirt. I'll be watching!"

The seamstress had made new clothes for her, too. A nice grey and white tunic of wool over similar woollen breeches. Her boots were tooled leather. Robb couldn't help but wonder how long they'd last as she sped away. Inside the walls, she would be safe from the army surrounding them now if they decided to let loose a few volleys of arrows. With no sign of siege engines on the horizon, he allowed himself a little more security and his sister a little more freedom. At least, while it lasted.

Meanwhile, still in the gatehouse, Brynden looked worried. "Your mother really didn't trust that bastard boy of your father's. Just as she never trusted Theon Greyjoy, or Roose Bolton, or Walder Frey- "

"Jon is not like them," he cut in.

"With all due respect, you said that about Theon Greyjoy when insisted he return to the Iron Islands."

The truth of his words stung him, but Jon was different. He knew Jon was different. "My mother hated Jon because she had no one else to blame my father's infidelity on. So, she lashed out at him. He did nothing to deserve it."

The Blackfish backed down, his blue eyes growing dull with defeat. "Catelyn was a kind and loving woman. You couldn't have had a better mother than her. There must have been something else about that boy that set her on edge. She wasn't the type- "

"She did!" Robb cut in again. "I loved her as much as you, Uncle. More, since she was my mother and you only ever get one of those. No one can replace her in my life. But I won't make excuses for the way she treated Jon. Now I think we ought to concentrate on the Tyrells. It's them at our gates, not Jon nor anyone else."

In case either of them needed reminding that they were now under siege, the air around them was rent by the blasting of horns and the cries of the garrison. Rusted chains clanked and groaned as the drawbridge was raised and the portcullis dropped. Every gate was sealed and locked. Archers ran to take up positions along the battlements, every murder hole in every tower was suddenly occupied.

Robb watched it all happen in a daze. Even though he had been fully prepared for the siege, he hadn't expected to feel like a rabbit caught in a snare, only able to watch the enemy circling slowly inwards. There was no going back now: they were trapped.

"Is Aunt Lysa worth a try?" he asked. "The Lords of the Vale could lift this siege. Surely, she is worried about her childhood home, her brother and you, if not a nephew she's never even met before."

"Now that the Tyrells are here," Brynden replied. "We won't even be able to get a message to her. Not unless someone fancies a swim across the fork and even that will be risky. If they're seen they'll be shot at with arrows. Any raven will be shot down on sight."

"She'll hear about it all the same," Robb said, desperately.

The Blackfish shrugged. "Lysa is … an unusual woman. Don't bank on her for anything."

They lapsed into silence as the first lines of Tyrell men reached the outskirts of the castle. Immediately, they began setting up camp with tents and marquees. Small fires were started, ready to feed the hungry army. Within a day, this whole castle would be surrounded, save for the river. The wheelhouse he had seen earlier was still on the move, trundling up the road with a large Tyrell banner fluttering from a pole fixed to the roof.

"Do you know any of them?" Robb asked, glancing at his uncle.

"I met Mace once," said Brynden. "I defeated him at the Tourney of Storm's End, many moons ago now. If that's him in the wheelhouse, there's little to fear. He was a pompous fool with a fat head. His mother, on the other hand, may be almost as old as Maester Aemon, but she could tear these walls down with her wits alone, if I remember her rightly."

Robb couldn't help but smile. "We better hope the wheelhouse isn't hers, then."

Even Brynden laughed. "I doubt it. You can't have a lady as old as that at a siege."

"Why did Cersei send them? Why not the Lannisters themselves, since they're so friendly with the Freys now."

The Blackfish looked puzzled. "Who knows? Mace Tyrell may have been stubborn when he laid siege to Storm's End, all those years ago. But he still lost when your father broke his lines."

While he spoke, the wheelhouse had come to a halt just before the bridge over the moat. Or rather, where the bridge once was. It had already been raised, preventing any Tyrell was getting over the moat. The Tyrell banner was taken down by a young squire and, in its place, a white flag was run up the pole.

"They want to parley," said Robb, breathing an audible sigh of relief. "Uncle, I want to be there."

Brynden gave it a moment's consideration. "Go and put your livery on, remember who you're supposed to be. I'll tell them you're my cup-bearer."

Robb nodded, turning to look again at the wheelhouse. He couldn't make out the finer features of the people's faces, but he saw a young woman unfolding herself elegantly from the back seat of the carriage. She stood up with her back straight, hazel brown curls falling down her back, off-set by a pale blue silk gown. She turned her face to the gatehouse, but whether she could see him or not, he could not tell.

"Lady Margaery," said Brynden. He looked puzzled again. "They've sent the dowager Queen."

* * *

The rain had eased to a fine mist, and for that Margaery was grateful as she turned to get her first proper look at Riverrun. It was a formidable castle, ringed by thick curtain walls. Something she was even more grateful for than the weather was the white peace banner flying proudly from her carriage. Especially when she noted the archers now lining the battlements and peering down from the murder holes.

No wonder Cersei sent them. It was impossible to have this castle surrounded completely. Not unless they built wharfs out into the river, and they would be destroyed from above as quick as her men could erect them. She noted two pale faces watching from a window in the gatehouse, just as one ducked out of sight.

"Sister."

Garlan approached her from the other side of the wheelhouse, holding open a pale green cloak for her.

"Thank you, brother."

She allowed him to drape it over her shoulders as she groped for the sleeves, wrapping it up snugly around herself. It was colder than she expected, with the first hints of winter in the air.

"Loras and I are going to ask for the parley now." Garlan eyed the archers. "In the meantime, I think you should remain here."

He and Loras were both armoured, while she wore silks and a woollen cloak. "Very well, and good luck."

While he went in search of Loras, she opened up the wheelhouse door again. Inside, Jeyne sat bundled up in a new cloak of Tyrell colours. She still hadn't heard back from anyone about a place for her, but it wouldn't be much longer. In the meantime, Margaery kept the girl close and wanted to check on her one last time.

"Do you remember who you're supposed to be?" she asked.

Jeyne nodded. "Esme Flowers, your illegitimate cousin."

Margaery gave her an encouraging smile. "You can stay here with Loras for now. I'll warn ser Brynden that someone was set up as Arya Stark, but he won't know it was you."

In the week or so since learning the truth, it had been clear that Jeyne was still loyal to the Starks. She had only gone along with the marriage plan to get out of that brothel, away from the clawing men who groped at her and used her, exercising their sick desires on her. Anyone in that situation would have done the same. But she had still agreed to marry the enemy of House Stark and the guilt weighed heavily on the poor girl.

Now, Jeyne peered out of the open door of the wheelhouse, looking up at the direwolf banners still flying from the battlements.

"What will you do to the people inside?" she asked, fearful. "Will they be killed?"

"No, child," Margaery assured her. "All we're doing is talking to Ser Brynden. We will see if we can reach an amicable settlement. If we cannot, we will decide what to do next when we reach that bridge."

Before the girl could say anything else, Garlan interrupted them.

"Sister, they're letting us in."

Already. Margaery leaned inside, hugged Jeyne briefly and shut her back inside. Loras would take care of her, as she promised. Meanwhile, she turned to face the uncompromising edifice of Riverrun's curtain walls. The drawbridge was still up as Garlan offered her his arm, which she linked her own around and began walking.

Those granite-grey walls blended perfectly with the slate-grey skies that loured overhead. Still a fine rain fell, misting her cloak and dampening her hair. The wind was the coldest she had known. A soft breeze, blowing from the rivers in reality, but it chilled to the bone.

"Do you know Ser Brynden?" she asked, just as the drawbridge began to lower.

"Only be reputation," he replied.

To meet the man himself, she wasn't kept waiting long. The drawbridge lowered, revealing a man in late middle-age, with iron grey hair and a sword at his hip. He stood there in silence, regarding them coolly through bright blue eyes. His arms were folded across his middle, his expression unreadable.

Garlan halted their walk across the drawbridge and opened his cloak. Reaching for his sword belt he took the weapon off and held it out.

"Ser Brynden, thank you for agreeing to meet us. I am Garlan, of House Tyrell and this is my sister, Lady Margaery."

Brynden Tully came up to meet them half-way, whereupon he took Garlan's sword. "Well met Ser, and my lady."

He also disarmed.

"How do you do, my lord," Margaery greeted him. "You can see that I am unarmed."

She took off her cloak so that he could see for himself, only her gown was beneath and there was nowhere to conceal a sword. Still he hesitated, watching as they got wet in the persistent drizzle. After what seemed an age, the older man beckoned towards his castle.

"Come, let us negotiate."

They were soon led within the walls, to a well garrisoned castle. Silence fell as they passed, however. A thick and smothering silence that carried with it the barely concealed hostility in the eyes of the hundreds of men now watching their progress across the courtyard. Despite her straight-backed stance, Margaery felt herself shrinking inside, just a little.

As she went, she caught the eye of a small boy in a woollen cloak of grey and white. The look in his eyes was one of pure hatred, the grip on his wooden sword tightened. Grey and white – Stark colours, she remembered. She tried to smile at the boy, a gesture made easier when she realised the boy was, in fact, a girl.

Brynden's pace did not let up until they were in the keep and being led up some turret stairs. She exchanged a look with Garlan, wondering if this was normal. But, they were only being led to a solar. Inside, it was warm and a fire was crackling in the wide, stone hearth. It was positively homely, after weeks on the roads in the unrelenting rain.

"Please, take a seat," said Ser Brynden, gesturing to two chairs arranged at the side of a trestle table. "Wine and refreshment is on its way."

Both she and Garlan thanked the man for his hospitality. Thanks that had barely left their lips when the servant's entrance to the back of the solar opened, admitting a young lad of about sixteen or seventeen dressed in red and blue livery, a silver leaping trout was embroidered into the breast. His hair was auburn, his eyes a piercing, dazzling blue. For just a brief moment, his gaze locked into that of Margaery's, almost causing her to blush and look away. It remained a brief moment, broken by Ser Brynden's introduction.

"Let me introduce you to my bastard son," he said, gesturing to the young man. "Tristifer Rivers."

The lad inclined his head in a gesture of respect. Meanwhile, Margaery continued to appraise him.

"Tristifer," she said, a smile slowly playing across her lips. "Like the Hammer of Justice."

There was a moment of silence in which both Tully and Rivers seemed surprised that she knew who Tristifer Mudd was. A smile passed between father and son, causing the son's blue eyes to glitter.

"Apologies, my lord, I heard the story when I was a girl."

"Don't apologise, my lady, there's nothing wrong with remembering our history," the Blackfish assured her. "Wine please, Tristifer."

As the cup-bearer set about his work, Garlan opened up proceedings. "My sister and I would like to begin by expressing our condolences on the loss of your niece, Lady Stark and your great-nephew. It may mean little and less coming from House Tyrell, who're allied to House Lannister, but that massacre was none of our doing. And I hope you understand that."

Allied to House Lannister. In this place, among these people, the words made Margaery's flesh crawl. All the same, she looked to her host and saw his jaw clench, a nerve pulsing in his temple. Garlan's sentiments didn't just mean very little within these walls, they made the man angry. Even poor Tristifer had spilled his wine. He recovered himself in time and proceeded to decant into each of their glasses.

"I met Lady Stark at Storm's End," she said, addressing Ser Brynden. "I would never claim to know her well, but I spoke with her on a few occasions. She was a brave and courageous woman, and you must have been very proud of her."

"None could have been more proud than I, my lady," Brynden tersely assured her.

"She tried to broker a peace deal between Renly and Stannis," Margaery continued. "Had she succeeded, this realm would already be at peace by now."

Brynden now fixed her with a measured look, weighing her up. However, that was as close as she was willing to get to admitting she loathed the Lannisters as much as he and that her house was seeking their destruction as much as any other. She pretended not to notice that look by transferring her attention to Tristifer, who was still decanting wine neatly into goblets. He was a little old to be a cup-bearer, but she supposed the castle staff was running low in the siege and that the children had been taken to safety.

He appeared beside her, ready to fill her glass. As he did so, he glanced sidelong at her. His jaw was lined with stubble, a deep russet colour. His hair auburn, and pale skinned.

"That's enough for me," she said, placing her hand over her cup. "Thank you, Tristifer."

He looked at her properly, then. Meeting her gaze again, he nodded but said nothing as he withdrew. Once Garlan was served, Tristifer retreated to the side lines where Margaery could not see him. However, Brynden commanded all of their attention now.

"The short story of this siege is that I will not yield this castle," he said, resolutely. "You can bring the armies of the seven hells and I will not surrender. We will not be moved. And you can tell Cersei that and you can tell her the direwolf still flies over Riverrun, as it does at Raventree Hall and Seagard alike. One day, I promise her, the direwolf will once more fly over the walls of Winterfell."

This defiance was nothing more than she expected. Both she and Garlan expected it.

"The direwolf of House Stark belongs over Winterfell, my lord," said Garlan, leaning forward in his seat. "It has done for thousands of years. It belongs over Winterfell as much as the leaping trout belongs over the walls of Riverrun. House Tyrell does not dispute this. However, the same cannot be said for House Lannister- "

"And you're here at the Lannister's behest," Tully broke in. "I understand all that; you're here to do their bidding and not your father's. But you may as well turn around now and go back to Cersei Lannister and tell her it is futile."

Tristifer emerged from the shadows of the solar, his expression hardening. The look in his eyes now sent a frisson of danger shivering down her spine. She felt the temperature in the room suddenly drop.

"Tell her the North remembers," he said, voice low and icy.

"I will," she assured him, keeping her tone even. "Anything you want us to convey to the Queen Mother and we will."

"My sister speaks true," Garlan backed her up. "We may be here to do Lannister bidding, but we're still Tyrells and Tyrells keep their word and honour their promises. I can assure you of that, my lord. And we have news that may be of interest to you."

The tension dissipated, but not much. Brynden nodded, gesturing for one of them to continue. Which Margaery did.

"Petyr Baelish was keeping a servant girl in his brothel," she began, noting the Blackfish's eye-roll.

"That snake!" he guffawed.

"He gets worse, my lord," she said. "He planned on passing this servant girl off as Lady Arya and marrying her to Ramsay Bolton in order to prop up the Bolton's rule of the North."

"The girl had no choice," Garlan assured them. "It was that, or stay at the brothel and be abused for the rest of her life. She is barely ten years old and deeply afraid."

Both Tristifer and Brynden looked vaguely sickened.

"Needless to say, we have put a stop to his scheme and the girl is now being cared for," said Margaery. "When I took this girl from King's Landing, I was still under the impression that she was the real Arya Stark. My intention was to bring her here and return her to you for some concession. But even if it was for a concession, I hope you see from that that I mean you no harm."

"You would have handed her over in return for the surrender of the castle, you mean?" Bryden asked. It was purely rhetorical. "Even if it was the real Arya, the answer would have been no. So, here you are, with no bargaining chips but for a servant girl no one knows. I would say your position is weak and there's little left to discuss."

From where Margaery was looking, she could see no reason to disagree. Unwittingly, she caught Tristifer's eye again. He did not shy from her. She was glad of it, since he was rather pleasing to her own eyes.

* * *

Come dusk and they called a halt to proceedings. Something Robb was grateful for as he stepped out onto the solar terrace and looked out over the river. His livery had itched all through the talks, he was rubbish at being a cup-bearer and had to be reminded to top up every time. After dribbling wine in Ser Garlan's lap, Brynden had even been forced to give him a scolding, lest the situation look suspicious. Having taken his admonishment with good grace, he retreated back into the side lines where he had felt the most comfortable.

Now he could clear his head and breathe in the fresh river air. Always, after the rain, he could catch the scent of the rushing waters. Something that had always helped soothe him, even in times of high conflict.

"Hello." He had barely been out there a minute when Lady Margaery's voice drew him from his musings. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

Robb turned to face her, finding her standing in the doorway with her cloak over her shoulders.

"No, not at all," he replied. Remembering he was meant to be Brynden's bastard, he remembered his courtesies just a second too late. "My lady."

She smiled sweetly, waving his apologies away. "Please, just call me Margaery. Do you mind if I join you?"

He stepped aside, even though there was plenty of room on the terrace anyway. In reality, he thought, he really shouldn't be doing this. She was the enemy, here to do another enemy's bidding. But all through those talks, she had been unfailingly polite and kind. He hadn't expected her, nor had he given Lady Tyrell much thought. When he had, on those seldom occasions, he imagined a female Joffrey. What stood beside him now was quite the opposite.

"I hope your father won't be angry with you about spilling the wine," she said, glancing up at him. "It's not like you ruined Garlan's best breeches, they're just tatty old things."

Her eyes were golden-brown, the colour of dark honey. He felt them on him as her gaze raked over him, from head to toe.

"No, he'll be fine," he assured her. "And I hope you forgive his abruptness, my lady. Tension is high here. The war is not over. Not for us."

She said nothing for a long moment, but she continued looking at him. "I wondered where I had seen your face before."

"We've never met," he insisted, growing a little nervous now. "I would have remembered."

"No, no we haven't met. But your cousin. You look so much like your cousin, that I thought I had met you," she explained, stifling a laugh. "Silly of me, I know."

Out of pure habit, he thought she meant Lysa until he twigged that she could only mean his mother, Catelyn.

"I mean what I said about Lady Stark," she continued. "I really did admire her. Not just from those brief meetings with her, when she came to Storm's End. But from what your cousin, Lady Sansa, told me."

Robb's heart raced, he had almost forgotten that she would have known Sansa. "How is she? Do you know where she went?"

"No," she replied, looking genuinely regretful. "No, I don't know where she went. But she's a very dear friend of mine …" she blushed coyly. "I don't have a sister of my own, Tristifer. I rather hoped Sansa would become like one. News of her mother and brother's death broke her, I fear to say. She was holding out for Robb Stark to come riding through the gates of King's Landing, to take her home and keep her safe. After he was slain, I wouldn't have dared step into dead men's shoes."

Robb felt like he had been punched in the gut. "He left her there…" he murmured low.

All the same, Margaery heard him. "I really don't think he had much choice."

"But he did," he said. "He could have organised a proper prisoner exchange, he could have reached a settlement before it was too late. But he didn't."

She was looking at him again, her brow tightening into a frown. "People make mistakes, Tristifer. Hindsight is a bitch, too. My grandmother warned me that life can only be understood when you look back on it, once the mistakes have already been made. And she's right."

"I can't argue with that, my lady," he replied. There was another moment of silence in which Robb looked down at his boots, just in case she thought he was staring down her bodice. "Thank you, for being a friend to my cousin. I loved her well when I served my Cousin at Winterfell."

Margaery's eyes widened. "Oh, you served there? I did wonder; you have a bit of a northern accent. Sansa had it too."

He forced himself to laugh. But, before they could grow too comfortable in each other's presence, Ser Garlan appeared on the terrace, acknowledging him with a nod.

"Nice to meet you, Tristifer," he said. "Margaery, we're returning to camp now."

"Very well," she replied, fastening her cloak. "Again, I'm honoured to make your acquaintance, Tristifer."

He smiled again and offered his hand. "And mine. I hope we meet again."

He realised he meant it. Whatever else she was, she was a human being. A rather nice one, at that, or so it seemed to him. He watched her leaving with her arm locked into her brothers. Before vanishing from sight, she looked back at him over her shoulder, a smile on her lips and a curious look in those golden-brown eyes.


	7. A Ghost In Riverrun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to post this chapter when I last updated and posted the next by mistake. I'm really sorry for the confusion!

Sometimes, when the sun shone and burned away the thick river mists, the Riverlands would be revealed in all its glory. On days like that, Margaery ceased to notice the sprawling siege camp surrounding the castle as best they could. She and Jeyne could walk the riverbanks right up to where the Tumblestone flowed into the Red Fork, always under the watchful eyes of Tully soldiers that lined the battlements. She didn't fear them, but she stayed out of arrow range to play it safe.

"Aren't you afraid?" Jeyne asked her, on one such afternoon.

"Why should I be?" she had replied, with more confidence than she felt. "I am an unarmed woman who means no harm to them. And it's very beautiful here, don't you think?"

Nor was she lying. Under the shroud of mists, the Riverlands boasted wide fields of emerald green, fertile pastures and dense forests full of deer. And wolves. Even inside the protection of her camp she could hear the howling of a great wolfpack. Every morning, when she walked the outskirts of the woods, she would often stumble upon the remains of their feasts scattered on the edge of the land. Forest animals reduced to pulped flesh and bones. Probably the same deer she had been admiring the day before.

This close to the castle, she was beginning to notice the habits of some of its inhabitants. For instance, every evening – come sundown – Ser Brynden would walk the battlements, right up to the gatehouse. He always brought someone with him, more often than not it was the girl she had mistaken for a boy. Other times the Maester, often it was the Master at Arms: the more obvious of choices. But never the son.

Tristifer seemed to be left inside at all times. If she saw him at all, it was as he seemed to be admiring the view from his chamber windows, but he always seemed lost in thought. Looking without seeing. The other day, he had noticed her standing there, looking up at him. Their gaze met for just a moment, but he bowed his head to her and quickly reclined from view.

Did Brynden confine him to his turret because of his bastardy? All too many noble lords would have done that. However, it didn't seem likely since Tristifer was also doubling up as a cupbearer at their occasional parleys. Even so, there was something else about Tristifer that seemed to snag at her. He was a bastard born cupbearer and sometime squire, yet after their meeting he had lingered in her mind. Apart from the occasional interjections at their parleys, he barely spoke a word and lingered at the side lines. But his presence in the room was such that she never forgot that he was there. He was young, but he was man of a certain bearing.

While lost in her thoughts about the strong and brooding mystery bastard, Jeyne cut into her thoughts once more. "While you were in there, did you get to see if Sansa had arrived? I do miss her so, although I suspect she'll be displeased when she hears I pretended to be her sister."

That was a point. Sansa had seemingly vanished into thin air. "No, child. I'm sorry. They might have her somewhere I would never see her – it's a big enough castle and I'd understand why they would hide her. But I don't think she's here. There was another girl I saw, one I mistook for a boy, who I suspect is the real Arya Stark. But no Sansa."

Jeyne looked up at her from where she was wading in the shallows of the Tumblestone. "If you see her again, point her out to me and I'll tell you. I remember all the old Winterfell gang."

Margaery had found an old tree stump to sit on, which overlooked the waters of the Tumblestone, where it converged with the Red Fork in a strong and frothing current. Meanwhile, Jeyne's suggestion got her thinking. She suspected the Frey's wouldn't give up Edmure for anything, but their Northern hostages could be another matter. It was Riverrun they wanted, after all. Not Winterfell or the North. And if Walder Frey was as loyal to Roose Bolton as he was Robb Stark, then they might just be able to prise a few notable names from the dungeons of the Twins.

"Jeyne, would you be able to identify many Stark bannermen?" she asked.

She stopped wading and turned to give Margaery an apologetic look. "Some, but not many. They came and went from Winterfell all the time and my father dealt with them all. But I didn't pay enough attention."

Small wonder, she would have been a child at best and the intervening years would have eroded what she did know. But still, it was worth a try.

"Are there any at all that you think you would remember?"

"The Cerwyns," she replied. "Their son played with us at Winterfell, but I heard he is dead now. The Karstarks visited often. The Manderlys, too. The Hornwoods, Glovers and Mormonts. But I wouldn't know the Mountain Clans, or anything like that. But I know the sigils and their house words. I memorised them all in lessons."

She looked proud of herself and Margaery smiled at her approvingly. Meanwhile, the seed of an idea took root in her mind. Something she discussed with her brothers that night.

"If we can get inside the Twins with Jeyne, she can give us a better idea of who is still alive and held captive," she explained. "If Walder Frey expects us to take his castle, he can't very well refuse to cooperate with us when we say we need to know exactly who he's got rotting under his cellars."

Garlan looked sceptical. "It's a good idea, sister. But I've heard that Walder Frey is one of the most objectionable shits ever to walk this good realm's hallowed ground. However, even if we only get a first-hand look at Edmure Tully, we can reassure Ser Brynden he's being looked after and that might win us some favour with the folk inside the castle."

"Precisely," Margaery replied. "This siege looks set to last for forever and a day, and we'd do well to foster as good relations as we can. If we win friends in Riverrun, we stand a better chance of resolving this peacefully."

"Can we offer sanctuary to all those inside?" Loras asked, pulling up a seat. "The Queen doesn't need to know of any deal we make here, while it's between us and Ser Brynden."

"We can give them safe passage and that's about it," Garlan answered him.

"And they won't take safe passage unless they have somewhere safe to go to," Margaery reasoned. "Why go rattling around the realm when you already have a safe castle to live in."

They were huddled around the brazier inside her large marquee, doing their best to ward off the night time chills. And when their conversation lapsed into silence, she could hear once more the distant howling of wolves. Sometimes close, too close for comfort, but now they were far away. Even the woods around here were dangerous to take sanctuary in.

"Sister, you seem to have struck up well with Ser Brynden's illegitimate son," said Garlan. "We would do well to make friends with him. Do you think he trusts you?"

"I doubt it, why would he?" she replied. "But I'll keep on trying, brother. If I can win him over then I think that's half the battle won where Ser Brynden is concerned. He seems very fond of the boy."  _As am I_ , she inwardly added…

* * *

Growing stronger by the day, Robb resolved to make the most of the fine weather while it lasted. Come sunrise, he broke his fast quickly and headed out into Riverrun's sparring yard. Over the last weeks and months since the massacre, he may have given up on himself. But Arya, Brynden and Riverrun had not. Nor had House Mallister and House Blackwood. Perhaps, a few of the Northern houses hadn't, either? While they had faith in him, he had had rediscover the faith he had himself. A good place to start looking for it was in the said sparring yard with a sword in his hands.

As soon as he stepped into the yard the volunteer partners lined up, weapons at the ready. Dispensing with formality and preamble, he lunged straight into the fight. One attacked and, once engaged, the second entered the fray. Opponents in battle didn't do him the courtesy of lining up to take him on one at a time, so he didn't see why they should in the sparring yard either. Within minutes, he was fending off two of them sword and shield, while kicking out at a third to buy himself time and breathing space as he recovered his old skill.

Rusty from illness and inactivity, he tired easily and his opponents quickly overpowered him. A blow to his stomach sent him reeling backwards, where he hit the ground so hard it knocked the air from his lungs. It would have been embarrassing, had anyone other than Arya been watching. All the same, pride alone compelled him back to his feet and back into the fight. From atop the perimeter fence his sister cheered him on, wide-eyed and tense as a bowstring. He couldn't help but wonder why she was using his bastard name. Other than that peculiarity, Arya looked like she would have vaulted that fence and come running to his defence, had their uncle not been holding her back.

Meanwhile, Robb grit his teeth and ducked under the swing of another's sword, drawing his blade again and thrusting it right at the man's gorget, knocking him out of the fight. Had the battle been real, that man would have been dead. A sharp elbow to the face of another sent him crashing into the dirt packed ground, leaving just one more that Robb disposed of with a sharp jab of the pommel and quick kick.

The fight, frenetic and chaotic as it was, left him gasping for breath. But he had won, and that was all that mattered. Arya cheered his bastard's name, grinning from ear to ear and making the efforts all worthwhile. Meanwhile, Robb himself was still doubled over and fighting to get his breathing back under control. It would be weeks, maybe months, before he was back at his fighting peak.

He got up slowly, pulling off the gauntlets he'd donned before the fight and looked up to where Margaery and Garlan Tyrell were watching from a terrace above. The Lord looked quietly impressed, while the young dowager Queen held his gaze, a smile playing at her lips. He dared return it as he bowed his head to her in a small act of deference, a gesture she answered with an elegant curtsey.

"I wouldn't say 'no' to getting stuck into that one." It was one of his recovering opponents who leaned in close to ear and made the crude remark.

Robb laughed. "As if she'd look twice at any of us."

Assuming another meeting was coming up, he called a halt to his training and returned to the castle. He didn't want to keep the Tyrells waiting, so washed hastily as best he could with a basin of lukewarm water. Stripped to the waist in an antechamber off the main hall, he used an old towel to wipe the blood and dirt from his skin. It was a small room, barely larger than a garderobe, but well-lit by the tall, narrow window built into the exterior wall.

It was there that he took a moment to scrutinise the wounds he had picked up at the Twins. His right shoulder was now crossed by a livid pink scar where a Bolton crossbow quarrel had entered through the back and protruded through the front. It had begun to putrefy, before Septon Meribald had found him and stopped any infection from spreading. Had he not done that, he could well have lost the arm. One day, he resolved, he would find the Septon again and reward him properly for saving his life.

In the meantime, he wrung out the cloth and ran it over the scar once more. The wound had healed now, but the scar would be a permanent reminder of what happened that night. Another faint scar, from where a blade had grazed his side, marked the ridge of a lower right rib. He hadn't even noticed it before. He reached for the laces of his breeches, ready to inspect the last of the damage done to his leg, when a knock sounded at the door. It was Brynden bringing him a fresh towel and clean shirt.

"Come in," he said, fastening his lacing again.

The door opened and Lady Margaery gasped, almost dropping the clothes she had in her hands. Robb was a little on the shocked side, too.

"Gods, I thought you were Brynden!"

"No, no I'm not Brynden," she laughed. "He, er, he asked me to bring you these while he went to deal with someone at the gates. There are no servants left."

He was acutely aware of her gaze lingering over his body, pausing over the scarred shoulder. But, after a moment, she tossed him the clean clothes and retreated outside. No footsteps retreated back into the main hall, so he knew she was waiting for him just beyond the door. Not wanting to keep her waiting, he dressed quickly and wriggled into the soft woollen tunic the seamstress had just finished making for him.

He also remembered what the Blackfish had told him the night before, when they saw Margaery out walking with her brother along the banks of the Tumblestone: "She likes you, I saw how she looked at you. Get to know her. Get her on side."

"You mad old goat," Robb murmured under his breath. Inwardly, he swore to get revenge. "No servants, my arse."

He stepped outside, blushing faintly as he met up with Margaery. It came as a relief to see she was similarly red-faced and laughing the incident off.

"Forgive my father, my lady, I can only think he took leave of his senses," he said, still fastening the buttons of his tunic. "He is apt to be rather gruff, often forgetting the gentle born are unaccustomed to being mistaken for servants."

"Oh, please, Tristifer, I lived on a Battlefield for months with my first husband," she laughed, good-naturedly. "During that time, you had to know how to look after yourself and that included fetching the odd shirt every now and then."

He fumbled with a button, getting it snagged in the fabric of his tunic. Seeing his distress, Margaery took over, freeing it and pushing the ivory button through the right buttonhole. Their hands brushing against each other briefly.

"I don't think I'm the only one used to battlefields," she remarked. "I saw you fighting in the yard back there."

"I fought for my cousin," he said, bluntly. But she waited for him to continue. "I wasn't always a cupbearer, you know."

He led the way out of the antechamber back into gallery that led directly to the common hall. To his dismay, Brynden was nowhere to be seen. Whatever had called the Blackfish to the gates, Robb could only hope it was bloody important.

"You must have been in the thick of the fighting," she said. "Apologies, it's just I couldn't help but notice the shoulder…" She gestured to her own, over the spot where her own imaginary scars lay to mirror his own.

"I was hurt at Oxcross," he replied, not altogether a lie. It was recovering from those injuries, hearing of the deaths of Bran and Rickon, that had led to him sleeping with Talisa for the first time. The first step on the short road to his own destruction. "It happens in the battlefield."

They found the common hall empty. Trestle tables that were normally full of people now sat vacant, gathering dust that spiralled through the air, lit up by the large stained-glass windows that bore the leaping trout of House Tully. Inside, the Tully standard alternated with the direwolf of House Stark. If that annoyed Margaery, or bothered her in any way, she did not show it.

She surveyed the room curiously, her honey-brown eyes alight as if she had stepped into a world of wonder. As if she was seeing more than just ancient bricks and decaying mortar.

"Might as well take a seat," he said, selecting a table in the middle of the room. "There's wine at the side there. Would you like some?"

"I would, thank you," she answered. "Sorry if my talk of battle reopened old wounds."

"It didn't," Robb was quick to assure her as he poured them both wine. "It's just … you know … everything that's happened since."

He was glad he had his back to her as he the memories of the war, the ceaseless fighting and the massacre at the Twins all came rushing back to him. He remembered Talisa, hearing about her body being thrown in the river, and felt inexplicably ashamed that he was already sitting down to drink with another woman. Why? He had nothing to be ashamed of. He needed to get Margaery on side and he suspected she was doing the same with him.

Bringing the drinks to the table with him, he slid into a seat opposite his guest's. From there, they looked at each other from across the narrow divide of their trestle table. Briefly, just briefly, Robb wondered what Margaery would do if he revealed his true identity to her right now. He tried to imagine the look on her face. The shock, the horror perhaps. But his identity was a secret he held hard in his heart – the one thing not even the Lannisters, or their lapdogs, could take away from him.

"You fought at Robb Stark's side," she said. "I don't pretend to have known him, we never met. But I heard what Sansa had to say and Lady Stark told me about him when we mat at the Storm Lands. He sounded brave and noble. Men of that calibre are an increasingly rare species in this world."

Robb smiled crookedly. "Really? I always thought Robb Stark was a bit of an ass."

Her eyes narrowed. It seemed to him she misliked how he spoke of himself and he began to wonder what, exactly, Sansa and his mother had been telling her about him.

"An ass you were willing to die for," she pointed out, smartly.

He almost laughed. "I'm a hopeless romantic, my lady. A doomed cause gets me every time."

"I can well imagine it." Margaery smiled, her eyes meeting his. "Did you fight in the van?"

"I did."

"No wonder you're a useless cupbearer then," she laughed again. "Forgive me, Tristifer, I'm not mocking you. I admire you, actually. It's easy to sit around doing nothing, when you could be making use of yourself. Especially for people like us."

"People like us?" he asked, eyebrow raised.

She set down her cup and gestured to the room at large. "Us. I know you're baseborn. I know what a Rivers is. But we were both still born into wealth, taught to rely on others to tend our every need. Sometimes, you just have to take matters into your own hands and I bet Robb Stark knew that too."

Robb paused, catching himself in re-examination. "Recently, a septon told me thousands died for his vendetta and I thought he had a point."

"Maybe he did have a point," she replied, taking up her cup again. "But the murder of a Lord Paramount on trumped up charges of High Treason requires an answer in like kind. I daresay there were better ways of going about it, but Stark's honour ruled out more subtle methods."

Her expression closed, her gaze dropping to the contents of her cup. She looked a little sad, actually.

"Why are you here, Lady Margaery?" he asked.

He got her full attention again. "What do you mean?"

"Apologies if I'm being a little forward here," he explained. "But I'm curious. Not so long ago you married the King. The King who apparently needed a more careful food taster in his service. Word is you're supposed to be marrying King Tommen now. Yet, here you are, with us, sitting out a siege that promises to be long and dull. All for a castle that isn't even yours and won't ever be yours. Why?"

Even if they did surrender Riverrun, it would go to House Frey. This simply wasn't the Tyrell's fight. He knew the Freys weren't here because they were searching the Riverlands for him. He found himself wondering whether she already he'd survived the wedding. Now, Margaery looked at him as if weighing him up. He could hear the calculations going on in her head.

"I can't honestly say why Cersei sent us," she answered, and it sounded like the truth. "She hates me and wants to see my head on a spike. Extrapolating from that, I guess she wants me and as many Tyrells as possible out of the capital."

"You must be itching to get back."

She looked him dead in the eye. "No."

The finality of her tone took Robb aback. "Right. So a tent in the Riverlands is preferable to a room in a palace."

"When the palace is full of duplicitous vipers, then yes, it is," she answered, without missing a beat.

Robb stifled a laugh. Right now, he wouldn't have been surprised if she had poisoned Joffrey, going by how she spoke of the Lannisters. However, he let the matter drop and topped up their glasses as soon as Margaery had drained hers. When he handed her the goblet again, she closed her hand around his own, holding it in place.

"I know I've already said it, Tristifer, but my condolences on your losses over these last months. You may think Robb Stark an ass, but I…"

Robb abruptly withdrew his hand. He couldn't understand why she kept bringing him up in conversation, even wearing someone else's name it made him feel as if he was being thrown into the centre of a Mummer's stage. "Forget him. He was a fool and he betrayed his own people."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to prattle on about it," she replied, leaning back a little as if to put distance between them. Her face flushed red, embarrassment or shame. "I was just going to say, since it happened, I sometimes feel a burden of guilt for what happened."

"That's absurd," he cut in. "It was the Boltons and the Freys and the damn Lannisters – with Robb Stark himself handing them all the lash for his own back. This was never House Tyrell's fight. And now here you are, making it your fight."

"And if I make it my fight, and I win, who's to say how I'll use that victory?" she asked, her gaze sharpening again. "I have no love for House Lannister, Tristifer. But I have no knowledge of battlefields or sword craft, like you and Garlan. I fight my battles in a different way."

Intrigued, he felt himself calming again. But, before he could ask for clarification, the doors at the back of the hall swung open again, sending broad daylight flooding back into the common hall. The Blackfish, armoured now, strode down the aisle and stood Robb up by the arm. He gestured for him to follow.

"Sandor Clegane was caught by the Tyrells trying to get back here," he whispered in Robb's ear, once they were out of earshot of Margaery. "He knows you're in here."

"Shit!" Robb cursed. He looked through the open door of the closet they'd hidden in, where Margaery was now gazing out of the window. She was breathtakingly beautiful. "Was Sansa with him?"

"No," Blackfish replied. "But they say they're letting him go again, so long as he doesn't return."

Robb frowned. "Do the Tyrells know he's wanted for desertion?"

He was answered with a shrug. "They don't seem to care."

Curious, he thought to himself. Well, so long as the Hound had the nous to play dumb whenever his name was mentioned, he didn't see what real harm could be done. Besides, he was easily denied. He was easily believed to be a liar.

* * *

"I angered him." Margaery felt unreasonably despondent as she and Garlan walked the banks of the Tumblestone that evening. At her side, Jeyne trotted along at a distance, quite happily so. She occasionally stopped to pick a flower, adding to quite a bouquet she gathered in her arms. "I thought speaking well of Robb Stark would show I'm not hostile. That we can be friends. But he had nothing but insults for the man and he ended up snapping at me."

Garlan didn't seem unduly bothered by the turn of events. She, however, felt differently. Tristifer was a good man, brave and strong. He had risen well in the world, despite the odds being stacked against him. And she admired that. Making him angry made her feel awful.

"Don't take it to heart, Margaery," he advised. "Strange lad, though. He's a skilled soldier and he didn't learn those tricks pouring wine for people."

"I like him, Garlan." Her confession was frank and to the point. "I like him and I think we can trust him. What if he knew of our plans?"

"No," he cut her off. "It's too risky, especially when father and grandmother are still stuck in King's Landing with our supplies and most of our army."

Margaery sighed heavily. He was right and it was too soon. Besides, House Tully might even be disinclined to help them. Their loyalty to the North was abundantly clear, even though House Stark had been all but obliterated. She realised then that the Blackfish must be holding out for Sansa – his new Queen in the North. If she could deliver Sansa she would deliver the allegiance of Brynden Tully, she could feel it.

"What about the Hound?" she asked. "He said he was looking for Sansa, so she's clearly not in the castle."

Garlan looked thoughtful for a moment. "That's another matter, sister. I think we should let him go and have our men follow him at a distance. The best hunters and trackers we have."

"I'm inclined to agree," she replied. "Because if she hasn't come here, to her uncle, it could be that she's gone to her aunt at the Eyrie. It stands to reason – the last person she has left."

They reached the end of the footpath and all joined up, Jeyne included, to turn around and start making their way back toward Riverrun. Out of habit, she looked up at what she thought was Tristifer's turret window, overlooking the join in the rivers. When she saw him there, sitting in the open window and pointing to someone in the yard, the semi-unexpected sight of him made her heart hammer in her chest.

Even though she still smarted acutely from angering him earlier that day, she raised a wide smile on her face and pointed him out to Jeyne.

"Jeyne, that's him," she said, playfully. "The one I was telling you about. Don't you think he's handsome?"

"Oh!" Curiosity piqued, Jeyne immediately pulled up and followed the direction of Margaery's pointing finger. When she returned to camp that afternoon, she'd told Jeyne about walking in on him while in a state of undress. While they watched, the object of their curiosity lost interest in whatever was going on in the yard and withdrew from sight, closing the shutters after him. Once more blocked out of his world, she felt her throat constrict at the exclusion.

Still grinning, she looked to consult with Jeyne, only to find the girl open mouthed and staring fixedly at the blank window. Even though Tristifer had vanished from sight, she walked forwards as if to get a better look, dropping the flowers she'd collected absentmindedly on the ground as she left. She didn't even seem to notice.

"Is everything all right?" Garlan whispered in her ear. "The girl looks spooked."

Margaery shared his concerns. "I don't know. I mean, she was fine a minute ago." She paused when Jeyne turned back to face her, looking pale. "Child, what's wrong?"

With the hems of her skirts hitched above her ankles, Jeyne made her way back to them. Every two seconds, however, she looked back over her shoulder, back at whatever she had seen.

"N-nothing, my lady. I thought I saw … I … nothing. It was nothing."

Margaery noted the stammer's return and opted to drop the matter before the child could become even more anxious. Instead, she and Garlan helped collect up the fallen flowers before taking her by the hand and leading her back to camp. As they returned, she did not speak another word.

It was late that night, when most others were fast asleep, that Jeyne shook Margaery awake.

"My Lady," she said, gently nudging Margaery gently back into wakefulness.

"Yes," she slurred back, still drugged with sleep. "Has something happened?"

"My Lady," Jeyne repeated, eyes wide in the light of the brazier burning nearby. She looked fearful again but Margaery simply suspected another nightmare – which she often had. "Do you believe in ghosts, my lady?"

Margaery smiled, hoping it was reassuring despite her drowsiness. "No, child. I don't."

Jeyne shook her head. "No. Neither do I."


	8. No Such Thing as Ghosts

When she said she didn't believe in ghosts, Jeyne had told it true. She spent her whole childhood in Winterfell, a castle they all said was haunted. Once, when she was very young, Sansa told her a ghost had sprang out from behind a tomb in the crypts. For just a brief moment, her innate cynicism had been shaken. At least until Arya set her right: the 'ghost' was just Jon, who'd been covered in finely ground flour.

After that, she had walked the passages and galleries without once encountering anything that resembled the restless souls of the castle's many dead. And the gods knew many of those souls had reason to be restless. From Lord Rickard, burned alive, and the son slowly strangled to death trying to save him and the daughter raped and murdered … if anyone wanted a post-mortem shot at revenge, it would be them. But, in her experience, the dead stayed dead.

Then, she came south for a life at Court. There was no room at all for death at the royal courts. Just life. Endless life, eternal youth made splendid through the rich, colourful splendour of pomp and pageantry. In the midst of all that, death hadn't seemed possible. She had been so wrapped up in the colour and beauty, she hadn't even seen the axe falling.

When Lord Stark was dragged off to the cells, the Lannisters cut down every man, woman and child attached to his household. Even as it was happening, she couldn't quite believe it. Not until she saw a man in a red tunic emblazoned with a golden lion draw his sword and hack off Septa Mordane's head. Septa Mordane, who had never so much as trod on an insect in anger. She vaguely remembered running and pushing past fighting men. But the memory had grown nebulous with time and shock. Her next solid memory was being locked in a room with Sansa.

People came for Sansa and Jeyne had no idea what they were doing with her. But she always came back, but never with any information. Not long after that, they came for Sansa again and took her off to the Queen's apartments. When the chamber door opened again, not long after, she though it was only Sansa returning. But it wasn't. She didn't know who the men were, but she assumed they were looking for Sansa, unaware that she was already gone. She was about to explain until they cut her off.

"Lord Baelish wants a word with you."

Her fear had evaporated. She knew Lord Baelish, she'd seen him around court and Sansa had even spoken with him. A small man, who always smelled of mint. He was important, too. She knew that about him. He was on the Small Council and knew everything that was going on at court. If she could speak with Lord Baelish about her father, perhaps even Lord Stark too, she knew he could help her. Besides, she was sure she wouldn't be gone long. By the time she got back, Sansa would have returned to and she could tell her dearest friend that she too had pleaded for the lives of their fathers. That would have pleased Sansa as much as it pleased her.

She didn't question where the men were taking her. Not even when they left the castle and started travelling through the streets of the city itself. They brought her to the whorehouse in a closed litter, so she couldn't even see where she was going. Still she didn't question it. They showed her to an empty room with just a table and pallet bed and told her to wait there for Lord Baelish. Still she didn't question it. Only when the door closed and the bolt slid into place, did she realise she had been tricked.

Even as a prisoner, she still held out hope that Lord Baelish would help her. She told herself he didn't know she had been locked up, he didn't know how she was being treated and he would walk through that door at any minute. But the next man to walk through that door was a stranger to her. She had tried to ask him a question, but he merely covered her mouth with his hand, forced her back onto the bed and set the course for the next two years of her life. After he was gone, a woman came and cleaned the blood from her thighs and "washed her inside out". Jeyne thought the woman was trying to help but, in reality, she was merely being prepared for her next customer.

The rape broke her. The beatings compelled her to pretend she was enjoying herself. No, it wasn't the dead that Jayne feared. It wasn't the ghosts forcing themselves into her, whipping her and defiling her. It was the living she feared and the living monsters were real. Every day she prayed the Old gods and the Seven that Robb would win his war and destroy their enemies. It was the one thing she clung to, getting through each assault, giving her the strength to endure every humiliation. But Robb never came.

However, Margaery Tyrell did. It was Margaery who took her from the brothel, it was Margaery who organised her escape, it was Margaery who brought her far from the capital and now it was Margaery finding her a place in the Reach. Maybe Margaery only did all that because she thought she was saving Arya Stark. But what did that matter? Even when the truth came out, Margaery had sheltered her, fed her and gave her all the protection she needed. She had clothes, shelter, food and safety. She even had a future. Things she had not known since Lord Stark was alive.

The Starks had abandoned her, the Tyrells saved her and brought her back to life. The Starks, consumed with the murder of their lord, probably hadn't given her a second's thought. She had sworn no oaths to House Stark, she owed them nothing but the allegiance that came from being born on their lands, in the precincts of their castle. As arbitrary as it seemed, that birth allegiance still had a hold on her.

So first, she wanted to be sure of what she had seen. Baelish himself had told her that Robb was dead, House Stark all but obliterated. He deployed his weasel words on her, telling her that by taking Arya Stark's name, she would be helping House Stark live on. It made her feel ashamed to know in her heart that he hadn't needed to say all those things. She had jumped at the chance of imitating Arya just to get out of that brothel. She hadn't given a moment's thought to what type of man Ramsay Bolton was.

Now it hardly mattered. Because she had waited on the banks of the Tumblestone, looking up at that window until her neck ached, until she saw "Tristifer Rivers" again. When she did see him, she knew him right away. He had grown a beard, but it was sparse enough to see Robb Stark beneath it and he was no ghost. She thought he had noticed her, looking right through her without a trace of recognition.

"If there were any Starks left, would you kill them?" she asked Margaery. It was the same evening she had confirmed Robb's continued existence to herself, once she returned to Margaery's tent at the heart of the camp. It was warm in there, by the light of the brazier.

Margaery frowned, a shocked look on her face. "I'm not Cersei, sweetling. Of course I wouldn't kill them."

That was a good start.

"What will you do if you find Sansa?" was her next question.

"Bring her here and return her to Lord Brynden," replied Margaery. "As long as he agrees not to take up arms against House Tyrell, he can have Sansa back."

"And if he doesn't agree?"

"She will be taken to Highgarden, where she will be our hostage. The Lannisters will never get their hands on her again."

Theon was a hostage at Winterfell, she remembered. He led a good life, even if he wasn't a good person. Sansa would be like him – free to come and go as she pleased, being educated and dining with the Tyrells. Like Winterfell, only with better weather.

"The Tyrells are nothing like the Lannisters, are they?" she asked.

Margaery pulled a face. "I hope not. No. House Tyrell prefers to find a way to work with our enemies, rather than just bulling in there and killing everyone. Bloodshed begets more bloodshed. Revenge leads to more revenge. House Tyrell seeks to end all that. Sadly, that also means working with the Lannisters."

That gave Jeyne pause for thought. They may not wipe out House Stark, but they were still working with the Lannisters. And there must have been a reason why Robb lied about who he is to her. It wasn't her place to ruin his plans. But this was something huge that she knew and Margaery didn't, despite all that the Tyrells had done for her. Torn between the two houses, Jeyne ruminated herself into a state of near inertia.

"Did Sansa ever mention me?" she asked.

Margaery's hesitation gave the truth of her well-intended lie. "Yes. I think so. We talked about many things-"

"She never mentioned me, did she?" Jeyne interjected, bluntly.

To her credit, Margaery looked dismayed. "No. Not that I recall. But I am certain she's not forgotten you."

"It matters not."

But it did matter. She was Sansa's best friend but, in reality, just a servant. A servant whose job it was to provide friendship. Still she felt torn over what she should do next. But, like the dead who never troubled her, dead allegiances shouldn't either. Among the many other things the Tyrells had given her was a new name and a new identity. Unlike Jeyne, Esme Flowers wasn't even bound to House Stark by accident of birth.

"That man, Tristifer Rivers," she said. "I recognised him from Winterfell."

Margaery's eyes widened. "Oh yes, I was meant to ask about that. He said he was raised there as a squire to Lord Stark and a cupbearer for Lady Stark. Did you know him well?"

"Very well," Jeyne answered. She paused for a moment, steeling herself to say what needed to be said. "Just not by that-"

"My Lady!"

Jeyne found herself abruptly cut off by the appearance of two rain-soaked messengers in Tyrell livery. Breathless and red in the face from the cold, they stood dripping in the awnings they had shoved aside to enter the tent. Both she and the other woman rose to greet them, shocked and more than a little taken aback by the intrusion. Not so much as an announcement or a request for an audience.

"Sers, what can we do for you?" Margaery sounded curt, looking from one to the other.

They both knelt. "My Lady, we bring you news of the death of Lord Tywin Lannister."

Jeyne looked to Margaery, gaging her reaction. A flicker of triumph, a smile she tried to hide. Her slender, elegant body briefly showed the blow of the impact. She recovered herself with ease and in the blink of an eye.

"Esme, I believe we have a purse of gold to reward our good messengers?"

"I believe we do, my lady." Esme ducked a curtsey and smiled a sweet smile. Despite the awfulness of the messenger's timing.

* * *

When Robb was a boy, the sound of the rain pattering against his shutters had always lulled him to sleep. The warmth of his room, from the fire and the hot pipes in the room, the cold never crept in. All these years later, that boy was gone and the man lay awake and restless as the rains continued to pour. One of the castle dogs, with whom he had struck up a friendship, curled up on his counterpane and was now chasing rabbits in his sleep.

These days, his own dreams weren't quite so sweet. When he slipped into a fitful sleep, he woke to find himself back at the Twins, being pulled under the waters of the Green Fork. Or he was running through the forests outside Hag's Mire, being chased by a man with a wolf's head stitched to his shoulders, where his human head had been cut away. If Robb looked over his shoulder, he could see the dead wolf's tongue lolling from between its huge, razor teeth. Its eyes glassy and unseeing. He would think he'd outrun the chimera, only to round a bend in the path and find the monstrosity there, waiting for him. He dreamed of returning to Winterfell, only to find Theon feasting on flesh at the high table, where once Eddard Stark had sat. Bran and Rickon hung from ropes suspended from the rafters.

These days, Robb preferred to stay awake.

However, just as he grew drowsy, his door opened and a long beam of light permeated the semi-darkness in his chambers. Arya, wrapped in a fur cloak, came padding softly across the rushes. Her face was solemn, her left arm held up a lantern that made the shadows lengthen. She looked like a long, skinny giant.

"Were you sleeping? I'm sorry," she said.

Robb pulled himself into a sitting position, inadvertently disturbing the dog who slid off the bed with a whimper.

"No, but it looks like you were."

She set down the lantern and scrambled up next to him. "The Tyrells are here. The Blackfish wants you in his solar."

"The Tyrells?" Robb repeated. "At this hour?"

Arya nodded. "I saw Margaery myself. She's with her brother."

A surprise, but a pleasant surprise. "I suppose I should dress."

However, he couldn't quite bring himself to leave the warmth of his bed. He lay there, working up the stamina needed to move.

"If you weren't sleeping, what were you doing?" Arya said, curiously. "You shouldn't just lie around in the dark. You'll grow sad again."

Robb raised a pale smile. "I wasn't sad, sister. Just trying not to dream."

Sat cross-legged on the bed, taking the dog's old place, she looked rather happy. "I like my dreams. In my dreams, I'm someone else. I dreamed of you, once. It was after the Hound brought me here and you were still on the run in the woods. Everyone tried to tell me you were dead. But I dreamed I saw you in the woods. You were asleep and you had a white horse tethered nearby. The wolves were going to eat you, but I stopped them. They ate your horse, instead."

Mildly perturbed by the accuracy of the dream, Robb was finally agitated into moving. He got out of bed and pulled on a clean shirt, while Arya handed him a pair of breeches.

"Did you ever dream of Grey Wind?"

Robb paused while pulling up his breeches. "All the time."

"They aren't normal dreams, are they?"

"I don't know."

He dressed hurriedly, pulling on his livery to keep the increasingly ridiculous pretence that he was just a cupbearer. As he went, he remembered the Battle of Whispering Wood. It had been Grey Wind who showed him that shortcut and the way to cut off the Lannister army. Those dreams were more than just dreams. They had stopped for him as soon as Grey Wind was killed.

"I needed that horse, though," he laughed, fastening the buttons of his tunic.

Arya gave him a funny look.

"The horse your packmates ate," he clarified. "I needed it."

She grinned and chucked at him the first item that came to her hand. An empty cup. "You need your life more, stupid!"

Her hair was already mussed up from where she'd lain in bed, but Robb managed to muss it up a little more. It made her laugh as she tried to swat his hands away. And even though she had grown bigger since their Winterfell days, he found he could still easily pick her up. He did so now, slinging her over his shoulder as he made his way out of his chambers. Only when they were through the door did he set her on her feet again.

"You like Lady Margaery, don't you?" Arya asked, suddenly turning serious again.

Robb drew a deep breath. "Don't you?"

"She's our enemy," she pointed out, sharply.

"There's only one thing you can do with an enemy-"

"Kill them," Arya cut in.

"I was thinking more diplomatically than that, sister."

"What then?"

"You can make peace with them," he tried to explain.

"And is that what you're going to do with the Tyrells?" she sounded less than convinced.

Robb merely shrugged. "We can't fight them, Arya. We have no army and they do."

Such trivialities never seemed to dent his sister's confidence, and Robb admired her for that. However, he sent her back to bed and made his way to Brynden's solar. He found the Tyrells waiting outside in the ante-chamber, suggesting his Uncle was taking his time getting ready to greet them. And Robb didn't blame him. It was some trick of theirs to turn up in the middle of the night.

Margaery turned to him, her hair wet from rain, and smiled. Her gown was wet, too. But her usual attire of silk skirts and intricate kirtles had gone, replaced with a more practical linen affair. It suited her well, he thought.

He nodded a greeting to Ser Garlan before allowing Lady Margaery to steer him away. They didn't leave the outer-chamber, they just repaired to an alcove that overlooked the sparring yard in the grounds below. Empty now, the rain still fell and filled the uneven ground with puddles that were slowly expanding across the forecourt.

"Forgive us for arriving so late," she said. "We understand it's most inconvenient. But we wanted to pass you this now, rather than waiting until morning."

The letter she now pushed into his hands was affixed with the royal seal. It was already broken, so she already knew its contents. Curious, he took a look for himself and felt the breath catch in his throat.

* * *

Tristifer's expression was hard to read by moonlight. Standing in the alcove, she could only see him in profile, where his pale skin reflected the paler light, shadows of rain running down the glass projected onto his cheek. She heard the breath catching in his throat, the choking noise made somewhere deep in his chest. He folded the letter and turned his gaze towards the window again, before changing his mind and giving the proclamation another read through.

"Tywin is dead," he stated, lifting his gaze to meet her own. "Murdered by his own son."

Margaery nodded. "Tywin sentenced Tyrion to death for the murder of the king. It seems someone set him free at the last minute."

Tristifer laughed bitterly. "Who would love that misshapen thing so much they'd risk their necks for him? I heard Oberyn Martell did it only because he would be fighting the Mountain."

"The only one I can think of is Ser Jaime," she answered. "Although, who knows, given the webs those courtiers weave it could have been anyone, for any number of reasons."

There were upholstered benches lining the alcove and Margaery took the liberty of making herself comfortable. It was clear Ser Brynden was in no hurry and she didn't blame him.

"Will this take the pressure off Lady Sansa?" he asked, taking the seat opposite her own. "With Lord Tyrion on the run, surely Cersei will be focussing on finding him rather than hunting my … cousin."

He sounded like he was about to say something else other than 'cousin', but at that moment Margaery paid it no heed. She was too busy trying to second guess Cersei's next move.

"She will still want your cousin," Margaery answered, honestly. "Only blood and heads will pay for the murder of her darling tyrant. Sansa will be hunted until her final days, it pains me to say."

Tristifer paled, drawing a deep steadying breath as he chewed anxiously at a fingernail. Rather than bringing him a little joy, it seemed the death of Tywin Lannister only made him more anxious. Perhaps it was knowing that there might be even more people out hunting for his cousin? That was the best she could guess, since it was Sansa's plight that seemed to distress him.

"You really care about her, don't you?" she asked.

Leaning across the small space that divided them, she took his hand in her own and held it tight for reassurance. He seemed taken aback by the gesture, but made no move to shrug her off. On the contrary, he held her hand back.

"Of course," he replied. "She's my family. We used to be such a big family."

Sick of the gap between them, Margaery got up and sat beside him. So close, their thighs touched. But she didn't care, because the look in his eyes made her want to kiss him.

"Maybe I was naïve for thinking this development would give you hope," she said, quietly. "Tywin's death restores none of your own family. But I thought, perhaps, it would seem like some kind of cosmic justice, at the best."

Tristifer's expression softened, a smile playing at his lips. Once more, Margaery was seized with the urge to kiss him. But Garlan was barely ten feet away and the Blackfish was due to arrive any second. There were rules to observe and courtesies. She began to think she was running to madness.

"I thank you for bringing us this news," said Tristifer. "We're not exactly grieving. And you can tell Cersei our halls are not decked in black velvet for her father. But, you're right, it doesn't bring back Lady Stark or the Queen we lost at the Twins."

"But it does mean that the Lannisters lose their most able commander," she pointed out.

That brought a smile to his face, which in turn made her happy.

"Jaime's lost his sword hand," she continued. "Kevan is growing old. Lancel's joining the Faith, from what I heard. The Lannisters are floundering, looking less and less promising by the day. At their head, a fat little boy of eight."

Tristifer's gaze dropped to where they almost touched. "And your future husband."

As much as she hated being reminded of that, she tried to mask her irritation. "He's manageable. He's not a tyrant, like his brother."

"Would he be quite so manageable if could see us sitting here like this, talking about him?"

Margaery noted the twinkle in Tristifer's eye. He was being mischievous, teasing her. And enjoying it.

She decided to play along. "He's happy so long as I don't make him eat beets. Beyond that, I don't think he even cares what I do. He's a child."

"All right then, his mother? And me a bastard, too."

Margaery laughed. "Oh, please! Cersei's been fucking Aurane Waters for weeks now."

"Seriously? Even her brother is a cuckold now."

Tristifer was wide-eyed, curious.

"Yes," she nodded. "And the gods know, she cuckolded King Robert for all those years." She paused to draw breath, letting the silence settle before adding: "But Tommen is a sweet child. He deserves none of what's about to happen to him."

"I met him once, when he came to Winterfell," said Tristifer, quietly. "I know, he was a good child. My cousin, Bran, beat him in the sparring yard once. It didn't seem to matter to him, he just enjoyed the experience."

Margaery sensed the mood changing again. He must have been happy there, regardless of what he said about Robb Stark. However, before she could say anymore, the Blackfish appeared accompanied by his guards. Tristifer glanced her over once more, a look she returned, before taking the letter she'd given him to his father. Margaery tried to pay attention to his reaction, but it was becoming increasingly difficult.

Like his son, Brynden Tully read the letter twice. Unlike his son, he seemed most gratified. "Pardon me while I shed no tears over that bastard's passing, my lady. And you can tell Cersei that, when you see her next."

Once the night's business had been concluded, and they had been warmed with some hot spiced wine, Margaery let Garlan lead her back to camp. Through the portcullis, back out into the rain, she found Jeyne waiting for her on the wooden bridge leading across the Tumblestone. She had her hood up, but the rain had long soaked through it.

"Jeyne, why aren't you in bed?" she asked. "You'll catch your death out here."

"I needed to talk to you."

After exchanging a look with Garlan, she hurried all three of them back to camp. It was late, she was exhausted and wanted only to try and get some sleep herself. The brazier was still burning though, and she was grateful for that. Once she had some more hot wine served up, she drew down the awnings so she could speak with Jeyne in private.

"Tristifer Rivers," she said. "I've seen him three times, most recently when you left Riverrun just now."

"Yes," Margaery replied. "He's a fine young man, don't you think? I was meant to ask if he knew you, but it went out of my head."

Jeyne was huddled close to the brazier, shivery and damp. But she stood straight and looked Margaery dead in the eye when she said: "That's Robb Stark."

Margaery froze, her throat suddenly constricted as she tried to swallow her wine. "What?" she choked.

"The man calling himself Tristifer Rivers," Jeyne repeated. "He's really Robb Stark. He didn't die at the Twins. And, like you said, there's no such thing as ghosts."


	9. A Conflict of Interest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for posting the last three chapters in the wrong order - the error has now been corrected. Thank you to everyone who has been reading this and leaving comments/kudos. It means a lot, so thank you.

Margaery had always been astute. Even as a young girl, she liked to sit and observe the people around her. It was a game that she played alone, within the confines of her own head. She would watch the people who came to Highgarden, from servants to lords, and try to figure out what their story was, how they came to be where they currently were and, more importantly, where they wanted to go. She tried to guess at their dreams, their motivations, their endgames. She liked to learn their foibles, their weaknesses and their strengths.

Over time, under the tutelage of her formidable grandmother, she learned to read people as if their souls were open books. By the time she was a maiden flowered, she had learned to turn the pages of these most private of books at her leisure, using the information gleaned to get them onside. Joffrey had been easy: a frightened boy who masked his insecurities with displays of naked cruelty – all she had to do was play along and pretend to be impressed. When she deployed her dark arts of manipulation, she always told herself it was in the best interests of her house and the realm as a whole. She liked to think that was true.

Then, she had left Riverrun having imparted some game-changing information, feeling ahead of herself and as if she was on the right course to some vague victory. She was sure of herself, confidently harnessing the storm gathering around her and preparing to send it in a direction of her own choosing. Then Jeyne spoke a few short sentences, and the storm seemed to slip her grasp.

Outwardly, she kept her composure. There was barely a tremble in her hands as she lifted the wineglass to her lips and downed the rest of the contents in one. The alcohol stiffened her nerves, a fortification against this most intriguing of shocks.

"Jeyne, it's been such a long time since you saw Robb Stark," she said, turning to find the girl still shivering by the brazier. "How can you be certain?"

Although Jeyne looked terrified, she remained steadfast in her assertions. "That was him. At first, I caught only a fleeting glimpse. So, I waited until I had gotten a better look to be absolutely certain. Otherwise, I wouldn't have said anything … I ought not to have said anything."

"You did the right thing," Margaery assured her. "Believe me, child, you did right by them and right by us."

Jeyne was scarce past girlhood. She had seen so much, lived through worse and had had her body and soul scourged in the process. Yet still, despite the defilement, she retained a guilelessness that clung to her still. She wanted to do right by House Stark and do right by House Tyrell, a conflict of interest that played out in the pained expression in her face. The problem with girls like Jeyne, Margaery thought, was that they never seemed to do right for themselves. Most ended up crushed under the system that sought only to exploit them.

"It was a secret and I gave it away," said Jeyne. "You won't kill him, will you?"

"Of course not!" Margaery replied. "I swear, you have my word, I will not harm anyone inside that castle and nor will Garlan."

Jeyne was still troubled. Her brow creased, wide deep-brown eyes brimming with tears she fought not to shed. "So, what will you do?"

That was a pertinent question and she answered honestly.

"For now, nothing. And don't tell anyone else what you told me; not even my brothers. Remember, Robb's new name is Tristifer Rivers and he's the bastard son of the Blackfish."

Jeyne relaxed. "I'll remember."

It was late and they both needed to sleep. But while Jeyne eventually dozed off, Margaery lay awake in bed looking up at the canopy that had been erected over her bunk. She would have no choice but to tell Garlan and Loras, eventually. She couldn't keep it to herself. However, that wasn't what troubled her. Nor could she have cared any less about her failure to see through the disguise. She wasn't to know any better. On the contrary, the deception amused her. It was cheeky and audacious, and she loved that.

The thing that kept her awake all night was him.

Robb Stark was spoken about at court as if he was a ten-foot-tall, one-man war machine. An unstoppable conqueror marching south, undefeatable in the field of battle and as cunning as he was swift. The smallfolk said he turned into a wolf by night, the same one that prowled at his side as he advanced south and cleaved through Lannister lands. Mere mention of his name brought out the cruellest in Joffrey, a sign that Robb Stark scared him witless. He was the storm that brought the winter.

Who was that she had found at Riverrun? Tristifer had a strong bearing, he drew the eye and commanded attention. She had noticed that the first time she met him, which was quite a feat for a humble, baseborn cupbearer. But in private, when he spoke candidly, she had seen the fragility behind the façade. She recalled the first private conversation they'd had, in which he'd accused Robb Stark of abandoning his people, leaving his siblings to die and obliterating his family legacy. All that time, she now realised, he had been talking about himself. She would have thought it was all part of the act, but for Ser Brynden being the complete opposite.

Knowing what she knew now, it made her heart ache. Instead of rolling over in bed and pulling the covers over her head she wanted to get up, get dressed and go running barefoot through the rain back to Riverrun to see him one more time – like the heroine in some terrible romance. Then what would she do? Stand on the riverbanks amidst the roiling tide of the Tumblestone, hoping to catch one more fleeting glimpse of the fallen King. To the seven hells with all that training and tutelage! This was a time for open-hearted dramatics.

Had she been spending too much time with Sansa? Margaery had to wonder. But no, she had to kick away such silly romantic notions and play her game as she always had. There was far too much at stake now. Cersei had been convinced of Robb's death, Joffrey had openly gloried in it, up to and including re-enactments of it at his own wedding. The Lannisters genuinely had no idea that Stark was still alive. As for the Freys: unless they'd been fooled by their own deception, it was small wonder they were yet to show their faces in these parts. But that wouldn't last long. But the Freys were nothing to her, yet. She was still worried by the Lannisters, but a little less than she was before.

Jaime's had his sword hand cut off, Tywin is dead, Tyrion is wanted for murder and Cersei was growing madder by the day. Now, the sugared plum crowning that royal mess, was the continued existence of one of the Lannister's deadliest enemies. It had to stay a secret at all costs, Margaery understood that. Reveal it at just the right time and Casterly Rock would come crashing down and peace would slowly return to this shattered realm.

And so, the politics and the wistful musings vied in Margaery's head all night. From the sensible to the whimsical, there seemed to be time and space for it all. But she could plan for definite without speaking to the Tullys and Starks themselves, so she found herself straying down the path of wistfulness more and more. She was running through the rain toward the towering edifice of Riverrun, her bare feet splashing through the watery mud, toward a light in the turret window where she knew she would see him again. The Tumblestone swelled and roiled, bare trees lashing in the wind –

 _Oh, stop it!_  She chided herself, rolling her eyes.  _This isn't you…_ Anyway, wasn't it the man's job to go running through the rain? Margaery wasn't certain, but she always did like to get things done herself. So, she'd rather it was her, either way. Besides, it was her dream and no one else's. The rules be damned.

She recalled a conversation she had with Loras, not long before she wed Joffrey. "Aren't you even curious about loving someone?" Loras had asked her. As he asked, he had fixed in her in the most curious narrow-eyed look, a dark look as he recalled his beloved Renly.

She had answered him honestly: "Sometimes, I dream that I've run off into the sunset with some noble, dashing lord. But, in the end, I always wake up to reality."

After a brief and fitful nap, she did the same the next day. She awoke to reality. A pleasant reality, though. The rain had dried up, the sun had risen and burned away the river mists. The Tumblestone flowed and fed the fertile land with the promise of another bumper harvest before Summer's end. Margaery watched the world stirring back to life and, for the first time in a long time, things felt a little different.

* * *

"Robb! Wake up!"

The pillow was pulled from under his semi-conscious face before being used to smack him over the head. Robb groaned, suppressed a curse, then flung one hand out to try and grab his little sister. Arya was too fast for him. She vaulted up onto the bed and started jumping and down on it. Suddenly, it was as if he were on a rocking ship, being tossed cruelly around. Why was she so energetic all the time? Sometimes, Arya's mere existence exhausted him.

"All right, all right, I'm awake. This better be good, little sister."

She was panting with the effort, clutching something tight in her little hand which she thrust out into his face. "Uncle Brynden told me what this is. Wait until you hear, Robb."

Curious, he opened her fingers and beheld a very unassuming iron coin. It was old and worn smooth around the edges and it come from…

"Arya, where did you get this?" he choked, hauling himself into a sitting position. "Do you know who these people are? What they do?"

The light of the girl's enthusiasm dimmed considerably. "You already know?"

"The House of Black and White, sister, they're assassins and not ones you want to go messing with," he cautioned. "Tell me where you found it?"

"I didn't find it," she retorted, defensively. "Jaqen H'ghar gave it me. I saved him and two others from a fire and he said a debt must be paid. Three deaths for three lives. And he gave me this coin."

She'd snatched it back from him, but he'd seen it well enough.

"Who is Jaqen H'ghar?" he asked. "Never mind. He's probably got so many faces even he doesn't know who he is anymore."

With that, he climbed out of bed and reached for some clean breeches to wear. No doubt, the Tyrells would be gracing Riverrun with their presence that day and he wanted to be ready for them.

"So, I can't go then?" she asked, cross-legged on the bed now.

Robb was more than a little disconcerted. "Go where?"

"To Braavos! To the House of Black and White," she answered. "If I could learn to do what they do, I could help you. I could kill Cersei, Roose Bolton, Walder Frey-"

"Arya, that's enough," he cut in. "I'm not having you running off to Braavos to learn how to sneak around killing people. Things may be bad, but I defeat my enemies by facing them across a battlefield."

Without another word, Arya slid down from off the bed and headed for the door. Robb flinched as it slammed shut behind her and he resigned himself to another day in which he could do no right.

He wasn't even right about the Tyrells. While down in the sparring yard, rebuilding his strength by sparring with as many opponents as he could handle, a messenger came from beyond the walls. The Tyrells were not coming on official business but, all the same, Lady Margaery requested a private audience. Not with Brynden, either. Just with him, Robb. That was curious.

Still breathless, dripping sweat and covered in dirt from being knocked to the ground, Robb nodded his assent. He didn't know if it was a good idea. Had he not been frazzled from the fight and seeing stars from being knocked over the head, he might have declined this strange offer. But he couldn't deny that he was intrigued.

"What do you suppose she wants?" he asked his uncle, later that day. They had met privately, in his solar, where they dined on a light meal of fish and vegetables from the late Lady Tully's old gardens. He had never known his grandmother, but he remembered his mother speaking of her often.

The Blackfish gave him a knowing smile, a glint in those old blue eyes. "I cannot imagine what the lovely Lady Margaery wants."

"You're imagining all the same though, are you not?" Robb laughed. "But honestly, uncle, my wife is barely in her grave and you're practically throwing me at Margaery Tyrell."

"I can think of much worse things to be thrown at," the Blackfish retorted. "Aim yourself right, my boy, and you're in for nice, soft landing."

"You're incorrigible," he mock-chided. "She's clever, she's beautiful, she's wealthy and has one of the largest armies in the realm. Somehow, I don't think a deposed, up-jumped Northern lord who barely survived a massacre is going to be a great match for her. Do you?"

The reality was grim. But the Blackfish looked undeterred.

"She believes you're a bastard and yet I've seen the way she looks at you," he said, lowering his voice. "As for you: you got where you did because you took risks. You may well want to consider taking another risk."

Robb frowned. "And tell her who I am?"

"No, not that," Brynden replied. "Not just yet. But I find it very telling of the type of person she is that she has grown so fond of a bastard. Not many of her station would, as well you know."

That had occurred to Robb, too. Some of those who didn't know him, to whom he was not familiar, had given him a taste of what it was like to be Jon. They didn't always say anything. It was in the way they looked at him. The shift in stance, the almost imperceptible wrinkle of the nose as if his bastard presence had somehow fouled the air around them. It took a while for him to notice that these reactions were brought about by the name "Rivers". Even the tradesmen who called to the castle, the smallfolk and others who had no business being snooty with anyone. He'd had a brief taste of what it was to be marked out for all the wrong reasons.

Besides, being Tristifer Rivers was a lot safer than being Robb Stark. Tristifer didn't have a price on his head, for one thing. Tristifer had the advantage of being alive, too.

"You didn't lose the war on the battlefield, Robb," the Blackfish continued. "You lost it in the bedchamber. Talisa was a nice girl, very beautiful and she would have been good for you, had you been a common soldier from a humble home. But you're not. You're Robb of House bloody Stark and you needed a bride to match your rank. I didn't lecture you at the time – your mother did that well enough on her own. And I'm not lecturing you now. But I think it apt to remind you."

Robb knew that, but he felt a little stung all the same. Having lost his appetite, he pushed the plate of unfinished fish away and reached for the mead instead.

"That's probably for the best, actually" said Brynden, gesturing to the abandoned plate.

Robb was puzzled, but could guess at what was going on. "Why? Normally, I get told off for not shovelling every morsel and more down my throat."

"Because I'm arranging a nice supper for you and your new lady friend, is why," the Blackfish replied, matter of fact. "You're going to have a bath and dress your best. There's going to be candles. Ladies like candles. Or, so I've been told."

The Blackfish was an old soldier, Robb made allowances for that. Subtlety was never his strong suit. But this, he thought, was going a little far. "Don't you think you're being a little obvious?"

Obvious or not, ser Brynden got his way. Robb spent the remainder of the afternoon soaking in a large stone bath, contemplating his fate. All the while, supper was being prepared for him and their guest. It would be served in a small and private room where they would not be disturbed.

Meanwhile, he found himself thinking of Jon again. He remembered the time they played Come into my Castle, and he had grown stroppy when Jon declared himself Lord of Winterfell. ' _You'll never be lord of Winterfell,'_  he'd scolded,  _'you're only a bastard'._

They were children, and children were cruel. He regretted it as soon as he said it. But you couldn't take back words, you couldn't make them unsaid, and he still remembered the hurt in Jon's face. He could see it now, all these years later, with leagues and years between them. Regardless of this little farce he was being put through with Lady Tyrell, in all likelihood Jon would be Lord of Winterfell and he would be the bastard Rivers, laying low like a hunted animal. The tables had turned on their lives, their roles and destinies playing tricks on them both. Robb no longer regretted what he had done, he just regretted that he now had to force his poor brother to shoulder the burden he left behind.

Hair washed, skin scrubbed pink, he got out of the bath and dried himself off by the fire in his chambers. Clean cotton breeches, newly tailored by the castle seamstress, lay folded on his bed alongside a silk shirt and silk doublet. All in the colours of House Stark – grey and white. He wondered if Margaery would notice, but even if she did he could say he got the clothes from his time serving Lady Stark.

When the appointed hour arrived, Lady Margaery wasn't a minute late. Robb was in place already, in a room close to the main keep where a table had been set. She was escorted in by one of Brynden's real servants, where she paused in the door and met his gaze with a smile that reached her honey-gold eyes. His heartbeat skipped, his breath catching in his throat.

"My lady, please be seated."

Having dismissed the servant, Robb drew out the chair himself. A gesture that seemed to make the colour rise in her face as she lifted her pale blue skirts clear of her ankles and approached him.

"Thank you, Tristifer," she said, taking in the table she added: "You shouldn't have gone to all this trouble. Although, those candles are lovely. Is that cinnamon?"

Robb hadn't a clue, so he just agreed. "Yes, I would imagine it is. My father uses them for all his guests."

That was a desperate attempt at normalising the situation. One she probably saw right through. But either she was too polite to say, or the mocking laughter she was holding in had been cut off by the arrival of their supper. She sat up and beamed at the servant, thanking him warmly as he placed a silver platter of fresh venison and roasted vegetables in front of her. After an exchange of pleasantries with the servant, while he decanted wine, Robb realised she really was very kind to everyone. Too kind, he thought, if even Brynden was pushing her too far.

"This looks excellent, I must say," she said, lifting her knife. "I must give the kitchen staff my compliments before I return. I hope Ser Brynden won't mind."

Robb shook his head. "He won't mind."

They were sitting facing each other, barely a few feet apart where he could see every intimate detail of her face and gown. The weave of the fabric, the cut of the cloth and the chain of golden roses that decorated the hems.

Once she had taken a few dainty mouthfuls, she paused to sip her wine and catch his eye. "Do you know, I honestly only came here to tell you something I thought you would find interesting."

Robb's curiosity was piqued. "Really? Do go on, my lady."

"I pray you indulge me, Tristifer, it's rather long winded," she replied, leaning back in her seat. "But, shortly after Robert's Rebellion, a girl was cast out of her home and exiled in the Free Cities. She was only a babe in arms, with no family and not a single penny to her name. Oh, she had a brother. But he was worse than useless. He beat her, they said. And one of her protectors – if any of the men looking after her can be dignified with such a name – even found the brother trying to deflower her. But that's better than King Robert, because he kept trying to kill her. So, anyway, she was forced to flee and stick with the mad brother for the sake of her life.

Eventually, even Robert gave up on her and just assumed she would die a natural death. Of starvation, perhaps. Or murdered by the brother. But she didn't die, as Robert hoped. She lived to be married off to a Dothraki horselord. Her brother sold her at the behest of a Magister living in Penthos, who probably secretly hoped she would die out in the Red Wastes. Instead, her brother died. Her husband died. Even the baby in her belly died. But she -the one everyone expected to die – she lived.

She didn't just live, either. Because the Magister gifted her three precious dragon eggs for her wedding. Now, hundreds of years after the last dragon died, three more live because of that poor, penniless girl that everyone thought would die. Now she's marching across Slaver's Bay, freeing the slaves and conquering cities."

Margaery picked up her knife and gestured at him with it. "Don't you think there's a lot you could learn from that, Tristifer?"

Robb had hung on every word, feeling more and more uncomfortable the longer it went on. Now he was choking down another mouthful of venison and even that seemed to stick in his throat. Why was she telling him this? Why was she holding forth about a girl who was meant to be dead? He felt like she was teasingly unmasking him without letting on. In the meantime, all he could think to do was play along.

"Yes, Daenerys Targaryen has had an interesting life, hasn't she?" he replied, at length. He tried, with all his heart, to sound light and casual. "So, it's true about the dragons then? We heard some rumours, of course, but didn't pay them much mind."

Margaery laughed. "Oh, yes. Joffrey was terrified when he found out and furious when his grandfather brushed them off."

Just for a moment, Robb forgot the situation and focused on these dragons. If that were true, they could all be in much more trouble than they realised. But that was a battle for another day.

"Tywin didn't take them seriously?" asked Robb.

"They're only babies," Margaery replied. "But she's already conquered Astapor, Yunkai and Mereen with the help of those babies."

"And babies don't stay babies forever," Robb opined.

Whether he was being unmasked or not, this was an interesting development. He had images in his head of Roose Bolton being forced to kneel before a silver haired girl mounted on a huge dragon, before being engulfed in flames. After all, it made sense to him that the Targaryen girl would not stop at Mereen. Those dragons would grow and fly her across the Narrow Sea. Now he thought, Roose had betrayed him only to have to answer to a girl on a dragon. It almost made Robb laugh. Still, he remained outwardly serious.

"My Lady, why are you telling me this?" He wanted to steer her back on course, getting a straight answer from her.

Margaery looked at him as she took a leisurely sip of wine. "I'm not being very subtle am I, Lord Stark."

Was there any use in even denying it? Robb thought not. People were going to find out eventually, anyway - at least, that's what he told himself. He smiled sheepishly, hiding his blushes behind his glass as he downed the contents. Even though he had all but second guessed where she was going, he still felt like'd been sprung into a trap.

"Forgive my forwardness, my lord, but I must say the grey and white suits you far better than the blue and red," she continued, smiling.

"How did you find out?" he asked.

"I've promised the girl who told me that I would protect her," she replied. "She did not mean to betray you-"

"Arya," he cut in, thinking of no one else. "I know she was angry with me-"

"It was not Arya," Margaery said, firmly. "Her name is Jeyne Poole and she was being sold to Ramsay Bolton in place of Arya."

Robb sighed heavily. "Vayon's daughter."

"She's been tortured and raped," Margaery explained. "She thought she would be left to die until we saved her. Please seek no reprisals against her, it was not her fault."

"No!" he retorted. "No, of course not. We all just thought she was dead, like everyone who else who went south. Where is she now? Tell her she is in no trouble, that we just want her back safe and sound."

"She's with me," Margaery assured him. "And I promised to look for a place in my mother's retinue for her. We didn't think you would be able to take her."

Robb was relieved. He was relieved that this Mummer's farce of him pretending to be a bastard was over. While worried about what would happen next.

"Tell Jeyne she can choose to go with your mother or stay with us. Her fate is her own to decide," he said. "But what will you tell Cersei about me?"

"Nothing at all, and you have my word on that," she promised him. "I swear it and I'll swear it on the Seven-Pointed Star, if need be."

Robb's brow creased, his gaze sharpening as he tried to weigh up the woman opposite him. Whatever game she was playing, it was against the Lannisters despite all outward appearances. "Who have you told?"

"No one," she answered. "Not even my brothers, but you must understand I cannot keep this from them. Not forever."

"Why haven't you told them?" he asked, more to the point.

"Because I don't want them to know," she answered, her voice low. "This is between you and me."

She made it sound intimate, like a secret whispered under the bedsheets. A feeling heightened when she reached across the table and found his hands with her own. Despite his wariness, he opened his palms and let her hold him.

"I wasn't just telling you about Daenerys Targaryen because she's supposed to be dead a hundred times over," she said. A small draught made the candleflame flicker. It was cinnamon, he realised, sharp and sweet. "She had nothing. Now she's Queen of Mereen. Don't write yourself off, my lord. You're alive. You're young. You fight like a demon. Anything could happen."

"Anything?" he repeated, slowly nudging the candle aside.

"Anything. A small word, with such a large meaning."

Their hands were still joined across the table, but their eyes were fixed on each other. She was a puzzle he couldn't figure out. Their hands unclasped and the moment slipped by, almost unacknowledged. His skin still felt warm from where she had touched it. For a moment there, he considered kissing her. Anything could happen, but not that. Not just yet.

"We live but once and we're dead forever," she said, drawing back her chair. "And, Seven save me, I've wanted to do this since the moment I first met you."

They both stood up, rising to the challenge issued by their mutual conflict of interest.

"What?" he asked. "This?"

He met her half way around the table, only stopping when their bodies met and pressed against each other. He hesitated briefly, before she went the final furlong and kissed him.


	10. The Luckiest Man in Westeros

"A messenger at the gates, Lord Commander. He asked for you by name." The candlelight guttered on the draught as Olly opened the door and hovered nervously in the aperture. "Says his own name is Harwin, Lord Commander."

Jon had been sorting through the correspondence for hours now, longer than he cared to remember. Letter after letter, from all four corners of the realm, all essentially saying the same thing. The words were becoming etched in his memory, he knew what each letter was going to say before he even snapped the wax seals. He could repeat the message with the same solemnity with which he could repeat his vows _: "House Whatever has always stood shoulder to shoulder with the brave brothers of the Night's Watch, endeavouring to uphold the most noble and ancient order in their efforts to guard the realms of men from the savages beyond. Sadly, however, House Whatever is going to sit back and do precisely fuck all to help in this, their darkest hour..."_

Or, words to that effect. Jon was paraphrasing, but the effect was just the same. Everybody knows; nobody cares. Consequently, Olly's intrusion came like a ray of sunshine penetrating the wall of Westeros's indifference to their own impending doom.

It was that indifference that made Jon want to scream and shout before jumping from the top of the wall, landing so deep in the snow he froze there forever. If they all want to be turned into the army of the dead, what was it to him? Let them, and let them be thrice damned for their nonchalance. But no, Jon was Jon and he couldn't let that happen.

He signed off on one more reply before filing it in the refuse. Harwin. He wondered if it was a relation of Winterfell's old Master of Horse. Looking up and rubbing his weary eyes, he squinted at the boy still lurking in the doorway, holding on to the door handle as if he might fall. Regardless of his youthful awkwardness, Jon had high hopes for his youngest steward and had taken him under his wing, as the Old Bear had once done for him.

"Send him in, if it please you Olly."

The boy slipped away, momentarily leaving Jon alone with his papers. While he waited, he glanced out of the window overlooking the drilling yard of Castle Black, using his sleeve to rub away the condensation. They were few in number, growing fewer by the day. Especially now that Stannis was preparing to take up residence in one of the abandoned forts farther along the wall. From there, the southern King was going to march south, which wasn't much good for the war against the long night.

In the meantime, Jon had been elected Lord Commander in a move reminiscent of being made captain of a sinking ship. All the same, he had to step up to the challenge ahead and did so with the ever diminishing means available to him.

His door opened again, jolting him out of his reverie as the candles guttered again. He looked up at the man in his chambers, narrow eyed in disbelief. This was no relation of the old Harwin…

"Harwin, it's you!" he said, getting to his feet. "Gods, I thought you were dead."

"Whatever gave you that idea?" Harwin replied, grinning. "Good to see you again, Jon. Actually, it's better than you can know. And I knew you'd be Lord Commander, one day. Congratulations."

They met in the middle of the room, clutching each other in a gruff bearhug before parting again. Quickly, Jon located Olly who still lingered by the door.

"Olly, fetch some warm food and hot spiced wine for our guest and I," he said. "Tell the cooks to be quick about it."

While that was being dealt with, Jon led Harwin to a small room away from the study where a fire burned in the hearth. The other man looked as if he'd been on the roads for weeks without so much as stopping overnight. Sporting a full, rugged beard, it had taken Jon a moment to even recognise the man. However, he seemed nervy and on edge.

"If you don't mind, I'll wait until that lad's return before we begin."

Jon completely understood. "Of course, you must be starving."

"As welcome as the food is, it's not that," said Harwin. "This matter is … delicate. Is it actually safe for us to talk here without being overheard?"

"Yes, it's fine. But, I trust my brothers with my life."

Harwin remained on edge. "If it's all the same to you, Lord Commander, I would rather we were truly alone."

Jon's spirits took a running leap at the sight of so unexpected an old friend, but now he sobered swiftly. After everything that had happened, he hadn't really in his heart of hearts expected this to be just two old friends catching up. This meeting had a purpose and, given all that had happened, Jon suspected it was grim.

Leaving Harwin by the fire, he ducked outside to bring Ghost in from the yard. If this was more bad news he wanted his old companion with him. Poor Ghost, he was the final relic Jon had of a long-lost childhood. While he scratched the wolf's ears, he wondered how much worse Harwin's news could really be. His father was dead, just like Robb, Bran and Rickon. Arya was dead. Sansa was probably dead. Winterfell had fallen, taken by Theon and now the Boltons. Ygritte was dead, too. In fact, everyone he ever cared for had died. Gods, even Catelyn Stark was dead. He cared for her as much she cared for him. Not much at all. But she deserved better than that.

"Hullo, Lord Commander." Sam waved at him as he crossed the yard, smiling cheerfully.

No. Not quite everyone he ever cared for was dead. "Good day, Sam."

Sam had already passed into Maester Aemon's chambers, where the old man grey weaker and greyer skinned than ever. Only now, they had the Red Woman circling the elderly Maester like a ruby-beaked vulture circling its prey, always dropping hints about Aemon's magical, royal Targaryen blood. She would burn that gentle old man over this Lord Commander's dead body. Not that it would come to that, since Jon already formed a plan that would take the Maester far from Melisandre's clutches. The Blackbird was already sailing into port.

Ghost nipped at his fingers, getting his attention once more. Ghost, he had called his wolf. It was appropriate, for all that had become of his friends and family. They were all just ghosts now. At the sight of Olly and another steward crossing the yard with their food and wine, Jon returned indoors with Ghost at his heel. There was no more delaying the latest brace of misfortune.

In from the cold, Jon's fingers tingled as he warmed them by the fire. All the while, the stewards laid out their food and wine. Jon thanked them and dismissed them with a nod, before pulling up a chair at the table for Harwin.

"My condolences on the death of your father, Jon," said Harwin. "Lord Stark was a good and honourable man."

"Thank you," Jon replied, taking a helping of bacon from the platters his steward brought. "Did you hear about Robb?"

Harwin had been drinking deeply from his goblet, but stopped and regarded Jon over the rim of the cup. "That's what I came here to talk to you about." He placed the goblet back on the table, a slow and deliberate movement. "He's alive, Jon. He survived the massacre and is safe at Riverrun. Arya is with him."

"What?" Jon choked. He had heard what Harwin said, he was just having difficulty understanding it. "I don't understand … I… oh gods, start from the beginning, will you?"

And so, he did.

"While your father was still Hand of the King, I was among those sent to Riverlands to dispense the king's justice to Ser Gregor Clegane. By the time we made it there, Lord Stark had been arrested and executed. The rest of the household had been slain. With nowhere left to go, many of us remained in the Riverlands and formed the Brotherhood Without Banners. We're no longer sworn to any House, but we're helping the innocents caught up in the War of the Five Kings. We found your sister, Arya-"

"Arya!" Jon cut in. "She's alive?"

Harwin smiled. "I almost forgot how close you two were. Yes, Lord Commander, she's alive. But she escaped from us. Only to be captured again by Sandor Clegane, who brought her to the Twins, where Lord Tully was marrying the Roslyn Frey. The only reason Robb wasn't in that hall was because he was outside, dealing with Sandor and Arya. That's where he was, when the massacre began."

Jon's whole body had tensed as he listened to Harwin's account, but he didn't even dare to let himself believe what he was hearing. Robb was dead. He'd dreamed of Grey Wind's death. He had sensed the loss. And he had grieved so much for all his family, he couldn't bear to raise his hopes to have them dashed again.

"Who told you this, Harwin?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"Robb himself," he replied. "When the massacre began, Sandor got Arya out to safety and brought her straight to Riverrun. Robb stayed to fight, of course. He was injured and escaped by swimming across the Green Fork and he was washed up onshore, where an old wandering Septon found him. A friend of the Brotherhood's, actually. Septon Meribald. He tended Robb's wounds, soothed his fever and all the while Robb used a false name. Cley Cerwyn."

Another dead ally, Jon recalled, Bran's little friend. "Theon killed him, from what I heard."

"He did indeed, so I wondered who was using his name when Meribald told me it," Harwin explained. "The imposter had fled by the time we got to Meribald's camp, but we soon tracked him down. I thought it would be a frightened soldier from the North, looking for a way back home. Imagine my surprise when I found your brother."

Jon tried to imagine what he would have done had he been in Harwin's shoes and burst out laughing. "I can but wonder."

"Aye, my lord. He'd been recaptured by the Freys when we found him, sick as a dog and fit to die. Once the Freys had been dealt with, we took Robb in and brought him to Riverrun. His uncle, the Blackfish, had been holding the castle since they left for the wedding. Little Arya was already there waiting for him."

Harwin wouldn't make this up. He talked bold, but never horseshit and not like this. Jon dared to let himself believe, through the numb haze of disbelief that seemed to have shrouded him. "I heard they cut off Robb's head and replaced it with Grey Wind's."

"They had to pass someone off as him," Harwin stated. "Anyway, don't take my word for it. Take this."

He reached into a bag that had been left by the side of his chair. From inside, he brought out two scrolls of parchment, one substantially larger than the other. The larger one had several seals attached to it.

"This is the decree of your legitimisation, Lord Stark," he said, handing it over.

Jon's heart stopped. Just for a second, before it raced at thrice the speed. His mouth was dry, his hands shaking as he broke the Stark seal. It was Robb's seal, too. The snarling head of the direwolf and not the whole direwolf. He read it through once and then twice, hardly daring to breathe. It was all there. His new name and style, with another Stark seal fixed to the bottom. Alongside it was the blue wax seal of House Tully, the decree of legitimisation ratified by Ser Brynden Tully.

"I-I am Jon Stark," he whispered, to himself more than to Harwin. "Lord Jon Stark, no less."

When he was a little boy, Jon had dreamed of this. He had dreamed of saving Lord Stark's life in a fire, or some other terrible calamity. The result of his brave act of valour was not just being legitimised, but being given Ice – the ancestral sword. It used to make him feel guilty. As an adult, the memory of it made him feel foolish. Now, it had happed, albeit with a different Lord Stark and for slightly different reasons.

"There's more, Jon," said Harwin.

In his shock, he had almost forgotten the second scroll. He didn't even think he could take much more. However, he pulled himself together and broke the Stark seal again. It was Robb's will and Jon himself was the sole beneficiary.

"And a letter from Robb, explaining what he could," said Harwin, handing over another smaller envelope. "He didn't have much time, it was written as the Tyrells arrived to lay siege to Riverrun. I was there when it was written, though."

Jon took it, and the sight of Robb's handwriting was almost enough to bring tears to his eyes.  _'That time we played 'Come Into my Castle', I lied. You are the Lord of Winterfell, Jon. She is yours, take good care of her. I will raise an army and take the North back and I think I will die – again – in the attempt. But it's all for you.'_

Jon almost laughed, surprised that Robb even remembered that stupid game they played as boys. He also appreciated that it was a detail only he and Robb knew, so the letter could only have come from him. Finally, he was convinced. He dropped his guard and let himself hope. He let himself be convinced.

"While Robb lives, he is Lord of Winterfell and no other," said Jon, folding the letter. "But seven hells, I am honoured. I am truly honoured…"

His sentence trailed off, words failing him as he descended into a bewildered silence. It was all so much to take in, he didn't even know where to begin. There was only one thing that remained steadfast and resolute in his head: the army of the dead marching on the wall.

"But there's nothing I can do," said Jon, quietly finishing his sentence. "I am Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and I am needed here. If you had seen what I have seen out there, you would know why."

Harwin looked disappointed, but not in the least bit surprised. "Catelyn Stark used to resent you for being the son who most resembled Lord Eddard. I don't think she realised you're also the son who was most like him, too."

Jon laughed a dry and brittle laugh. "More honour than sense."

Once, when he was new to the watch and his father had been executed, when Robb was first declared King in the North, Jon had tried to desert. He needed to be at Robb's side, joining the war to exact justice for the death of Eddard Stark. He had felt torn then, conflicted between duty and honour. But that was nothing compared to the way he was feeling now. He was so torn he felt he might actually be bleeding inside.

"I want to help," he continued. "Gods forgive me, I wish I was there now. If I could, I would. But I can't, Harwin. I just can't."

Harwin was silent for a moment, contemplating something. "Robb isn't asking you to abandon the Night's Watch. So really, you're deserting nothing and no one. You'll just have to combine the two."

Jon laughed again. "I don't think the Lord-" he cut himself off. "No, I am the Lord Commander."

It had only been a month, he still wasn't used to it. He blushed all the same.

"Your King has recalled you," said Harwin. "You are Lord Commander, none here can gainsay you."

"All the same, Harwin, I can never abandon my brothers of the Watch," Jon insisted. "I can't have my first act as Lord Commander be my own dismissal. I have my pride, as well as my honour!"

To his shame, however, he was thinking of ways around it. Because he could not deny that he wanted to help. He wanted to be by his real brother's side, helping to liberate the North from the tyranny of the Boltons and destroying House Frey into the bargain. Then, he would unite the Northern armies and march on the wall, defeating the Others. Maybe that was it, he thought. He wouldn't be deserting if he was actually raising an army to take on the army of the dead.

Jon stamped out that fledgling thought and returned to the here and now.

"Jon," said Harwin. "You said, if I had seen what's out there, I would understand your decision. Tell me, what is out there? It's just an empty wasteland."

"No," he said, barely above a whisper. "Ask anyone here: the Others, the white walkers themselves, are back. They're marching south, bringing an army wights with them. The dead reanimated, doing their bidding. Every man in this castle has seen them, Harwin. Ask them, if you don't want just my word for it."

He had expected Harwin to laugh him out of the room. However, Harwin wasn't laughing. He wasn't even smiling anymore. "I'm staying put for a few weeks at least, with your leave Lord Commander. I think we should talk about this more. By the sounds of things, you need Robb and the south more than ever before."

"My predecessor wrote to every House in Westeros pleading for help-"

"That was your predecessor," Harwin cut in. "This is you and Robb we're talking about now. You'll do more than write and we'll do more than talk."

Jon sat back in his chair and regarded the other man for a long moment. Of all the houses who replied to their call for help, House Stark was the only one that hadn't answered at all. Usually, they would have been the first and it was that which had brought his mood so low. The Starks hadn't replied, because the Starks no longer existed. The deafening silence of Winterfell had been like a kick in the gut. But he had been wrong. So very wrong.

* * *

"Loras, do I look all right?" Margaery cinched the silk sash at her waist and fussed over her hair. The night before, Jayne had helped put in curling papers but the result was that she had awoken with a head of loose and lazy ringlets cascading down her back. She had hoped for something more defined, but this would have to do for now.

Meanwhile, Loras looked her over appraisingly. "You could dress in roughspun and still look radiant-"

"Seriously, Loras," she cut in.

"Yes, yes. You look fine, sister," he assured her, rolling his eyes. "What is all this, anyway? Have you fallen under the gruff charms of Ser Brynden?"

Her brother laughed at her, but she was in no mood to be teased. "Of course not. We're marrying him off to Grandmama, remember?"

"Ah, of course!" he laughed again. "So tell me, what is it all about?"

Even as children, she and Loras had shared everything. From sweets to secrets, what was hers was his and the other way around. She remembered, a couple of years ago, Loras had spent months in silent agony, carrying around the weight of the world's problems. She had been so worried about him that she thought he might do something foolish to himself. Then, one night, he had come to her and confessed that he had fallen in love. She had been delighted for him.  _'Who is she?_ ' she asked. Loras had shied from her as he corrected her pronouns.  _'He'._

He had braced himself for her disgust and furious condemnation. What he got was a tight and tender embrace and gratitude that, of everyone, he had trusted her. While people worked out his secret over the years, Margaery had never told a soul. When people did work it out, she did what she could to help him bear the stares, sniggers and whispers.

All the same, she hesitated to tell him what was happening in her own heart. She had no idea what her feelings even were. They fluctuated at will and all she knew was that no one, not one living man, had ever made her feel like that before. But, whatever this feeling was, it felt sacred to her. She felt as if the feeling would die if she dared give it voice.

However, if there was one person alive who could be trusted, it was Loras.

"Tristifer," she said, voice barely above a whisper. They were alone in her pavilion, all the same she feared to say the name too loudly. And while she confessed her feelings, Robb's true identity was not hers to confess.

Loras smiled knowingly. "I really should have guessed. Well, if you want my advice, sister … you know what I'm going to say."

"I can't," she said. "You know I can't."

"What's stopping you?" he asked, brusquely. His brown eyes narrowed, turning uncharacteristically hard. "You're not just a Queen, Margaery. You're a human and you deserve to experience love as much as anyone. Even if it's just once before you do your duty and fix your neck in the Tommen's yoke. And believe me, sister, a man like Tristifer Rivers will be able to show you things sweet little Tommen will never imagine in his giddiest daydreams. Don't you want even a taste of what that's like?"

"That's the problem, isn't it?" she replied. "Just one taste of that sweet little pudding and I'll not be able to stop myself gorging on the rest. That's always the problems with sweet things. They tempt you in and they have a tendency to be very bad for you."

She had already kissed Robb. The sweetest kiss she ever did get and she had kissed boys plenty of times before. Like the man himself, the kiss had been urgent, yet tender and forbidden. So gloriously forbidden.

Loras sighed heavily, running his hand through his curls. His hair was always perfect, she noted sourly as she remembered her own paltry curling efforts. Something was on his mind.

"I've seen Tristifer fight," he remarked. "Gods, he's good. If the castle does surrender, I want him fighting for us for when the moment comes and we're facing the Lannisters instead of on their damn side. Anyway, what I'm trying to say before getting waylaid, is that had he been born the trueborn son of a high lord, everyone would be telling you to snag him. Me included. That doesn't mean you shouldn't just enjoy yourself with him. If you're worried about permanent consequences, I'm sure there's a woodswitch nearby-"

"Loras!" Margaery smacked his arm, forgetting he was armoured. Still, he got the point. "You go too far."

Before Loras could reply, Garlan was let into the pavilion by Jayne. The brothers greeted each other with a nod, while Margaery kissed his cheek.

"You've done something different, haven't you?" he asked, smiling vaguely as he tried to work out what.

"Never mind," Margaery said. "Well, we should go. Else, we'll be late."

Before she left, however, Loras took her by the arm and whispered in her ear: "We'll talk properly after evenfall. And fear not, all will be well."

It was a fine day outside, with no rain to wash out her hair and soak her clothes. Always a plus in the Riverlands. But as they met Ser Brynden at the gates of the castle, they found him alone. He escorted them through the grounds of Riverrun, where there was also no sign of Robb. The cupbearer who served their wine was a real cupbearer: a boy of about ten who Margaery had not seen before.

"Forgive Tristifer's absence my lord, my lady," said the Blackfish, by way of opening up their parley. "I am afraid he is indisposed."

Margaery schooled her reaction carefully. "I am sorry to hear that, I wish him a speedy recovery."

Ser Brynden didn't quite meet his gaze as he nodded. "Yes. Quite."

* * *

The curtains around his bed were parted discreetly, and Robb knew it was Arya. Still he did not move. He lowered his eyelids and affected sleep, hoping she would take the hint and go away. However, this was Arya and she was never one to be deterred. If anything, his lacklustre attempts merely encouraged her.

"I know you're awake, stupid," she said. "Why are you lying in the dark, all on your own? Margaery and Garlan Tyrell have just arrived."

"I know," he said, voice muffled by his pillow. "Arya, I'm in mood-"

She tried to grab the pillow to whack him over the head with it again, but his torpor was not such that he couldn't grab her wrist in time. He tightened his grip, immobilising her. "I said I am in no mood for this today."

Through the darkness, he could see Arya's lip trembling. "You're hurting me."

He hadn't realised how hard his grip had been and relinquished his hold immediately. "I'm sorry, sister."

She answered by giving him a smack over the head with his pillow.

"I deserved that," he ceded.

"Yes, you did," she agreed. "Anyway, you're lucky. Despite what you just did, I'm going to stay and talk to you."

"The luckiest man in Westeros," he sighed, falling back into a lying position.

He had been there all day, refusing food and snapping at visitors to leave him be. During the long hours of sleepless silence, he lay in complete darkness and called himself the fool he was. He had wed Talisa at the height of his grief for Bran and Rickon. Now, at the height of his grief for his mother, friends and Talisa herself, he had sought solace yet again in another's arms. Was ever a mistake so great it bore repeating?

He had tried to remind himself that, this time, he broke no oaths and angered no allies. But he had dishonoured himself and he had dishonoured his late wife. Now the memory of that kiss made him cringe and kick himself. Not that he needed to kick himself while Arya was around.

"You can hit me again, if you want," he said, lifting his head from his pillow to locate her.

She punched him in the ribs as she scrambled up onto the bed and settled beside him. "There. Is that better?"

Robb considered it for a moment. "No, not really."

He rolled over so he had his back to his sister and buried his face for shame. Margaery didn't deserve to be used as a comforter for his grief. It was unfair and he had dishonoured her, too. He had dishonoured himself, again. In one small action, he had dishonoured three people at once. That had to be a personal record.

When he was a child, his father made honour look easy. Everything had been so black and white. It was either good or bad, right or wrong. But no matter how hard he tried, Robb couldn't seem to get it right. He had married Talisa rather than let her suffer the shame of being deflowered by him, which resulted in dishonouring the alliance he had made with House Frey. Now he needed to win an alliance to win back his lands and that meant dishonouring the wife who had died because of him.

To win back his family's honour, it seemed, he needed to utterly dishonour himself. In honesty with himself, he thought it a sacrifice worth making.

"I wish mother and father were here."

It was Arya who had spoken, taking Robb by surprise. He turned over again, so that he was facing her in the darkness, and wrapped his arms around her. "So do I."

"And Bran and Rickon and Sansa," she added. "And Jon too, of course. I wish we were all together again, at Winterfell. With Maester Luwin and Septa Mordane. I'd give anything to see Sansa at her needlework, singing as she stitches. She always sang so prettily. And you and Jon, sparring in the summer snow while father watches from the terrace – just as he always did. Jon used to beat you often, and you were so good about it. Then Old Nan would tell us a story about the old days and the Long Night, the scary stories that Bran loved so much. And the stories about brave knight that Sansa loved so much. I would give anything – do anything – to get back there."

As she spoke, her voice was hollow and flat. They were the words of a traumatised child who already knew thing would never be the same again. All the same, even as she spoke, it was a scene in his head that he had lived for so long that he could see it still. That hollow voice spoke aloud all his memories as if she was reading his thoughts.

"We can't go back," he said, softly.

"I know. We can only go forwards," she agreed. "But going forwards is a lot better than lying in the dark and hoping no one talks to you. If you do it again, I'll hit you."

Robb smiled. "I knew I could rely on you, Arya."

He sat up again and let his bare feet hit the floorboards. The movement felt good, like he was going somewhere. Arya remained lying on the bed, but was still watching him. He met her gaze as he looked to his left. "I don't know how, yet. I don't know when. But I'll bring you home again, one day. I swear, I'll do whatever it takes."

Her hand found his and tried to close around it. "I know," she said. "I believe you."


	11. Family, Duty, Dishonour

The rooms were cold. Much too cold for a man of Maester Aemon's age and infirmity. Jon found the old man sat in a chair, wrapped in furs and as close to an open fire as Sam dared seat him. Quite alone now, there were none to call upon his counsel, his wisdom gained through long years of a life well-lived. Alone in an old wooden chair, trying to get some warmth in his ever-shrinking frame. As slight as he was, his absence from Castle Black would nonetheless strike a sore wound in the heart of the Night's Watch.

As always, Aemon knew it was Jon approaching through the heavy tread of his boots on the bare floorboards. In any other blind man, Jon thought that might be a disconcerting talent. In Maester Aemon, it was just another clever way he had overcome an age-related impairment. At the old man's invitation, he drew up another chair and sat opposite him, letting the fire warm his legs after tramping across the snowy yards.

"Lord Commander." Maester Aemon's voice was barely a whisper. "I hear I am to be sent away."

There was no rebuke in his tone. He even managed a weak smile, to show he understood Jon's decision. All the same, he felt the need to elaborate, to justify his seemingly senseless decision.

"It's the red woman, Maester. I would have none of royal blood within her grasp."

Everyone had forgotten about Maester Aemon, closeted away at the wall. Even Robert Baratheon had left him to it. But then, that was the reason he came to the wall in the first place. To be discreet. To be forgotten by those who would use him to undermine his younger brother, once Aegon V had been made King. But Aegon V was long in his grave and Aemon remained, untroubled until the arrival of a foreign priestess with a fanatical belief that king's blood was somehow magical.

"Lady Melisandre follows a cruel god, Lord Commander. But I think I would like to be in Oldtown," he replied. "That is the Lord Commander's business dealt with. Why has Jon Snow come to me?"

Just for a moment, Jon could have sworn those old blind eyes had seen right through him. He took a moment, second-guessing himself on the best way to broach the issue. It pained him to rake up the ashes of the old man's past, but now it ran so parallel to the predicament he found himself in, he felt he had no other choice.

"Maester," he began, tentatively. "Not so long ago, when my father was executed, you told me everyone's vows had been tested at least once. You said your own were tested three times. The worst was the third, when the Targaryens were massacred and you were old and your eyesight was gone."

Aemon's gaze was now directed somewhere over the top of Jon's head, but he was listening and his bald head bobbed up and down. His breathing laboured, through infirmity and regret. "Well you remember."

Jon smiled wryly. He was hardly likely to forget. "The way you said it, you made it sound like you might have done something, had you been young and strong. Would you?"

Aemon wheezed, an affectation of laughter. "Had it been within my powers to smite down the usurper and all his followers, and raise from the dead those poor slain babes … who in my position would not? Wishing doesn't change the reality: I was old, I was blind and even back then my body had betrayed me. And nothing will bring my family back from the dead."

Jon swallowed, finding his mouth dry. He had come seeking guidance from someone who knew his torment. Now he wondered if he came here hoping that Maester Aemon would just say: 'Go, go and be on your way to save your family and good fortune, Lord Commander.' It even made him feel a little guilty to rake up the unhappy past in an effort to justify his own desire to do for the Starks what Maester Aemon could not for the Targaryens. Still the anguish troubled him.

"With hindsight, Maester, do you ever regret the decision you made at the Great Council, in 233?" asked Jon. "Even your fellow Maesters offered to free you from your bonds and support your claim to the throne."

Aemon seemed to deflate, his head lowering under the weight of an imaginary crown. Or was it just regret? Regret for decisions unmade, actions not taken. Anger at the passing of time and the frailties of human flesh and the fickle oaths of men. He could even be destroying the past in his head, and building a new tapestry of events that could have occurred, had he just said "yes" to the Great Council of 233.

"I only had to say one word," Aemon said, following a long pause. "I would be King, right now, had I lived as long as I have in this life." He broke off and wheezed another laugh. "I daresay, by now, my sons and daughters would be shouldering much of the burdens of state. But Kingship, like being a chained maester, is a job for life. I would still be on that iron chair today. That doesn't seem right, to me."

"That's what I mean," Jon said, leaning forwards in his chair. "You would be King. You would be as beloved to the people as you are to the Watch, there would have been no rebellion, no massacre and your family thriving. With just one alternative decision, the whole world would have been different. Some would say  _'happier'_  even."

"It's very kind of you to say that I am beloved by anybody, the Watch or otherwise," Aemon noted, smiling toothlessly again. "But I would be a King regretting that I broke my vows. Instead, I am a maester regretting that my family was wiped out of existence. I have lived with the grief for all these years and I will carry it for whatever time is left to me."

Jon sat back again, studying the man before him keenly. If the gods should grant him so long a life, would be rather regret the annihilation of the Starks? Or a Stark regretting that he had to forsake the Watch in order to save his family? It was a simple question with what felt like a simple answer to him. But, either way, whatever decision he made, he felt he would be damning himself. An unwitting kinslayer through cold lack of action, or an oathbreaker. The decision was his.

"Forgive my asking you all this, Maester," said Jon. "I do not mean to distress you."

"I know," Aemon assured him. "I admit I am curious about what brought this on. I think, perhaps, your old friend from Winterfell brought some news."

Sam must have told him about Harwin, but Jon did not mind. Besides, Harwin had joined a few of the Brothers and Tormund Giantsbane for a sojourn north of the wall. If he saw the undead, he would be one more person verifying Jon's story if he did decide to go south and help his brother. Furthermore, if Jon needed more help now, then it was from the man who had somehow managed to get away with having his wildling lover living with him at Castle Black.

"Hold on a minute, Maester, I think we're going to need Sam for this."

* * *

Robb followed the light of Arya's flaming torch as she ran ahead of him through the narrow tunnel. It's dancing flame reflected off damp walls, dripping with river water that seeped through the ancient brickwork. Hardly a promising sign of structural stability, he thought it would be just his luck for it to collapse and he and Arya to be drowned where they stood. Nonetheless, he kept walking.

It was an eerie place, too. Their footsteps echoed through the tunnel, making it sound as if they were being followed. Nervously, he glanced over his shoulder every few minutes to make sure they really were alone. Arya did not wait for him. She followed the twists and turns of the tunnel, deep beneath the castle cellars until they reached an old gate.

"You've got the key," she said, finally looking back at him.

Robb had it in his pocket, but the lock resisted him until he put his full weight behind it. Then the hinges groaned, the echoes loud enough to wake the dead. He had no idea any of this was even below Riverrun. But, if there were secret passageways and tunnels to be found, he could rely on Arya to root them out.

From there, the tunnel sloped downwards into a place flooded with water. They hopped across a path of wet, slimy stepping stones to a place where the tunnel rose toward the surface again. Then they were facing the water gate, where a small row boat bobbed in a waterlogged alcove facing the Tumblestone.

"There," said Arya, shining the torch flame onto the black waters. "There's the boat. You'll have to take the oars yourself."

Robb grinned. "I'm sure I can manage."

He stepped past his sister who had pressed herself flat against the wall, torch still in hand. She bit her lip as he passed, still looking worried. It seemed she still had doubts about what she was doing.

"If anyone finds out about this, I did not help you escape," she said.

He mussed up her hair as he climbed aboard the boat. "You worry too much."

She rewarded his concern with a punch in the ribs. But as he took up the oars, Arya turned serious. "Robb," she said, quietly. "Talisa sounded like she was really nice."

Caught a little off-guard by the statement, he stopped himself before rowing off into the dusk.

"She was. You would have liked her and she would have loved you."

She raised a small smile. "But she loved you. And when you love someone, you don't want them to be miserable and alone for the rest of their lives just because you're gone."

Hearing it from Arya's lips made it sound strangely poignant. She wasn't one given to matters of the heart, after all. But then, since they had been parted, he figured she had suffered some losses of her own. Who, she had not said. It was just enough to make him wonder.

"I know," he assured her. "And this won't last forever."

"Good," she replied. "Now go, before I hit you again."

He pulled up the hood of his cloak and took up the oars again. It didn't take long for him to escape the alcove he was in and find himself out on the river proper. He was meeting Margaery downstream, which made his task easier. The calm and quiet dusk helped, too. It was a pleasant evening and he could have been embarking on a pleasure ride, had he not been dressed in roughspun and disguised as a peasant to slip past the Tyrell troops unnoticed.

All the while, he kept his eye trained on the riverbank, until he saw Margaery waiting on a small wharf about a mile downstream, her brother at her side. By the light of Loras' oil lamp, he saw the smile spread across her face. Robb nodded to Loras, who handed the lamp to Margaery and took his leave. He still did not know Robb's true identity, she had kept her word and his secret.

"I wasn't sure you would come." Margaery approached as he scrambled out of the boat and back onto dry land. "I missed you, yesterday. You were not at the parley, your uncle said you were sick."

Once safely on the wharf he answered her. "Apologies, as my uncle said, I was indisposed. It was nothing, really."

She wore a full-length cloak of pale blue silk, lined with miniver. Next to his roughspun disguise, it looked even more resplendent, and he even more drab. Once they were together again, she lowered her hood the better for them to see each other.

"I feared it might have been more than that," she said. "You know … after what happened when we saw each other last."

"That wasn't your fault," he assured her. "I took liberties and I ask your forgiveness."

"How can I forgive when I wanted it as much as you?" she said, her brow knitting in confusion. "Or at least, I thought you wanted it."

And that was his dilemma. He wanted it at the same time he didn't want it. He needed to do it, while he knew he shouldn't have done it. But the heart is a lonely hunter and he began to feel like it's prey.

"I loved my wife, Lady Margaery," he blurted out. "I know I ought not to speak of such things, but I did. Despite the lies we told you, or maybe because of the lies we told you about me, I feel compelled to be nothing but truthful with you now. And, well, there is the truth. I loved my wife."

Ser Brynden would have him bury all these feelings under a wall of duty and pragmatism. Perhaps he was even right. But Robb knew he couldn't let them keep festering away. It would all come up again unless he dealt with the problem now. And he didn't even see it as a problem anyway, it was human. He was human. It was only an accident of birth that dictated he was to be a human set above many of the other humans that inhabited his benighted land.

However, now he had blurted all that out, he half expected Margaery to look appalled, or run away. Instead, she stood poised, straight-backed and dignified.

"It's such a beautiful evening," she said, gesturing toward the woods. "Walk with me."

Robb said nothing, but kept pace with her as they strolled into the woods. Although still only dusk, it was darker in the thickets of trees and he was grateful for the oil lamp Loras had left. He took it from Margaery, sparing her the effort of keeping one arm held above her head. Meanwhile, she talked about her first marriage.

"I did not marry for love, like you did," she began. "But with Renly, I was happy. In an arranged marriage, happiness can be as important as love. Some might say one precludes the other. I will never know, because Renly didn't live that long."

There was a very genuine note of sadness in her voice, one he had not expected after what he had heard about Renly. But Margaery seemed different to other highborn women. Different enough to share her husband with her brother, it seemed. Thoughts Robb was tactful enough to keep to himself.

"Oh," she said, looking up at him. "I know what you're thinking."

Robb blushed. "Am I that obvious?"

She laughed, such a sweet sound. "Everyone is the same. But love is a complicated beast, I think. The heart doesn't respect gender, or social standing, or any other false construct we care to place on human beings. That's what I think, anyway. Renly probably did love Loras more than he could ever have loved anyone else. It's certainly true of Loras, and that's why he is Kingsguard now. But Renly was kind, loving and gentle to me, at all times. When he died, my grief was real. Putting all that aside to marry Joffrey was not the easiest thing in the world."

Robb was mystified. "Then why did you do it? I didn't know Renly, but I knew Joffrey. He was an animal."

"Oh, he was," she agreed. "But Renly was murdered by a shadow with the face of Stannis Baratheon. We agreed to join the Lannisters for the sake of smashing Stannis back onto the rocks and wresting control of the Iron Throne back from the Lannisters."

"Do you believe that about Renly?" he asked. "The shadow business, I mean."

"Your mother did," Margaery pointed out. "And Lady Stark was not a woman to believe in silly fancies. Nor is Brienne of Tarth. She certainly didn't kill Renly, she was devoted to him. Loras would have seen that too, had he not been so blinded by rage."

Their evening walk continued through the trees, to a pleasant clearing in the woods. Wildflowers grew around the stumps of felled trees and the air was pleasant and cool. Robb couldn't even begin to voice how good it felt, after months of being cooped up in a castle.

"I suppose, what I'm trying to say is, that you will learn to live again," she said. "You'll love again, too."

First Arya, now Margaery. Robb was grateful for the dark, it hid his blushes. "Yes, I think I will. But I could not forgive myself if I took advantage of you just to make myself feel better about Talisa. You both deserve a lot better than that."

She took his hand again, holding it firmly in her own for a long moment. "And you deserve better than to be left languishing in your own guilt and grief, Robb. You and I have more in common than we at first thought. You and I are both in horrible positions. We could just be each other's last hope."

The air between them cleared, helping him see properly for the first time since escaping the Twins. At least, that was what it felt like. But still Robb hesitated. He felt like he was treading a high wire and Margaery was the only semblance of balance he had left. She was his all or nothing.

"I know all of what you say is true," he ceded. "But it still feels so wrong. It still feels like I'm dragging you down."

Margaery remained unconcerned. "Nothing drags me down. And what we're going to do tonight is return to our camps and think of a plan. When we meet again, we will discuss our plans and start making them a reality. The time for licking your wounds is over, my lord. Tonight, you start to heal and I will hear no more of it."

Robb found he could not argue with that.

* * *

Starting from the beginning, Jon explained all that Harwin had told him the day before. As he did so, he produced the documents Robb had sent: the decree of legitimisation, the will, the letter and all the rest.

"So, now you have been recalled by two kings," Aemon observed during a lull in the conversation.

Stannis had also offered to free Jon from the Night's Watch, but only if he burned the weirwood and after taking Winterfell. Something he could never do. All the same, he had been painfully tempted to the point where he did consider it. Meanwhile, Sam was deep in thought as they let the news from Riverrun sink in.

"Two kings," Jon agreed. "One uncrowned and unacknowledged who wanted me to desecrate my own home in return. I could never do that."

"You're going about this the wrong way," said Sam. "You're approaching this issue as if you were being forced to choose between Robb and the Night's Watch. But you're not. Yes, Robb is recalling you. But recalling you to what? The Boltons have Winterfell so you can't go there anyway. And, you said yourself Jon, while Robb lives he is your King in the North and your Lord of Winterfell. Whoever that little Mormont girl is, she clearly agrees with you."

All three chuckled at the recent memory of Lyanna Mormont's rebuttal of Stannis Baratheon, but Sam had a point. The Mormonts were the first House to go to for help with Robb, and Harwin already said that Lady Maege was still alive, somewhere.

"No," Sam continued. "What we need to do, is find a way for you to legally combine your duty to the Watch and your duty to House Stark. Now, while your vows state you can't hold lands or titles, you can accept the legitimisation. You're a Stark, Jon. That will mean a lot to the North. Robb made a lot of advances in the Riverlands, too. Which is also helpful."

Jon was puzzled. "How?"

Sam smiled. "Because now, all those houses are also dependent on your help just as Robb is."

"And this is a benefit?" he was lost.

"Of course," said Sam. "You agree to help them, in return for their helping the Night's Watch. You liberate them on condition that they liberate the far North from the Others. You're saving them, so they can save the Night's Watch."

Sam had a point and Jon liked it. But still he remained hesitant to commit to anything. Then, Maester Aemon spoke in support.

"I would not wish to sway your decision, Lord Commander, but if I may I would counsel you. The Night's Watch and House Stark have fought side by side on more than one occasion. This is not without precedent. If you manage to convince your brother to fight alongside us, the rest of the North will follow."

"And look at what you've done with the wildlings," said Sam. "It's not like you're shy of breaking precedents."

"But I need to reach my brother and Arya," he pointed out. "Before I do any of this, I must speak with Robb. How can I, when he is under siege?"

That left the room silent. Beyond the windows, night gathered again, leaving them with just the light of the hearth fire. Along with the gathering night, the tension came creeping up on Jon. While they thought of ways for him to combine his two conflicting commitments, he found himself growing increasingly anxious. To the point where he found himself picking at holes. Every hole he picked, he cast around for a solution. In the end, the solution to the siege problem seemed quite apparent.

"House Tyrell, you say?" asked Sam. "Well, that's simple enough. House Tarly is sworn to House Tyrell. I can write you a letter and affix my seal. Ask for Ser Garlan, he knows my father and I well. I'll just say you're on Night's Watch business and he doesn't need to know who you really are."

Jon laughed. "Fine, Sam. But how do I get there? It could take months and winter is coming."

"Sail with us," said Sam, quietly. "We're leaving in a few days. Come with us."

Once more, Jon prevaricated. They were setting sail on the Blackbird from Eastwatch and docking in Braavos for the first leg of the journey. Braavos was just across the water from the Vale of Arryn. From Braavos, Jon could set sail again further south to Gulltown in the Vale, leaving Sam and Aemon to continue their journey to Oldtown. For him, it would be a journey across land, almost a straight line from the Vale to the adjacent Riverlands. He might even be able to rustle up some support for the Watch among the Vale Lords. Lord Royce, whose son was so recently killed, was one who sprang to mind. They might even help Robb, if their father was remembered there.

It was almost devastatingly simple. But…

"I am needed here," said Jon. "I am Lord Commander and this could take me away from Castle Black for more than a year."

It was Aemon who answered. "You can give up being Lord Commander without giving up the Night's Watch. You can even name your successor. I might even be so bold as to suggest Denys Mallister."

It made Jon uncomfortable, a cold feeling in the pit of his belly. "I don't know, I…."

But he could not finish his sentence. Every time he found a pot hole in the plan, they answered it easily. But still he felt torn. It all seemed so simple, but still it felt like desertion. But it wasn't desertion, because he was coming back. And when he came back, he planned to do so with a vast army at his back and King Robb of House Stark at his side. Perhaps a few Knights of the Vale and the Riverlands, too. They ignored letters, but people in your face were harder to brush aside.

Sam stepped in again. "Harwin said the Mallisters are still loyal to Robb. Get Ser Denys to write a letter detailing what he's seen beyond the wall and give it to Lord Jason. It is evidence he cannot ignore, from his own kinsman."

Sam was right again but Jon was panicking inside. "How do I reassure everyone here that I am not abandoning them?"

Sam was silent for a moment as he considered acts of faith.

"Leave behind Ghost as surety of your return," he suggested. "And perhaps Longclaw."

"I need a sword, Sam," Jon pointed out. While he would miss Ghost, he needed the wolf at the wall for when he warged into him at nights. Through the eyes of Ghost, he could keep his own eyes on Castle Black and all that was happening. A supernatural talent he had not divulged to his brothers. "I'll miss Ghost acutely, he is my companion. But I'll not last a day without Longclaw."

"I have a sword you can use."

To the surprise of both Jon and Sam, it was Aemon who spoke. The old Maester had always been a man of learning, honing minds and not swords. Jon was understandably reticent.

"Thank you, Maester that's very kind of you," he said. "But I am sure I can have a look in the armoury and-"

"Humour me," said Aemon, attempting to rise from his chair.

Sam got up quickly, helping the frail man to sit back down. However, there was fire in the old dragon yet and Jon caught a brief glimpse of it as he defied the younger, stronger man. Admitting defeat, Sam lent his arm to the old man.

"Go into my bedchamber, where you will find an old weirwood cabinet," he said, his voice a little firmer now. "It is too heavy for one man to move, so the two of you will have to manage. Behind it, you will find a loose oak panel in the wall. I marked it with a scratch. Prise it open with a dagger and you will find my sword."

Jon still highly doubted he would need it, but now he was just plain curious and found himself going along with it. After Sam settled the Maester down again, he came to help Jon haul the cabinet a foot away from the wall, plenty of room for him to squeeze in behind it and lever up the loose panel with his dirk.

The oak panelling behind the cabinet was coated in old, dry cobwebs, dirt outlining perfectly the shape of the cabinet. Some webs still had shrivelled dead spiders still clinging to the threads. It was so bad, he had to have Sam fetch a damp rag to wipe it down before he could even see the loose panel. When he did find it, it offered little by way of resistance to Jon's dirk. Once removed, he propped it against the firm wall and groped into the space beyond.

At first, his hand merely closed over thin air. After reaching in a little farther, he eventually found what felt like a sword still in its scabbard. He drew it out carefully, finding it to be a fine old longsword. Mystified, he held it up to Sam.

"Why has he got it hidden in here?" he asked his old friend.

Sam shrugged, equally perplexed. "The Watch could use a sword like that, too. It's bound to be castle forged."

Jon was inclined to agree as he pushed himself out of the crawl space and into the open room again. The scabbard was filthy, shrouded in more webs, dead spiders and dust and grime. He couldn't guess at how long it had been there, but he was looking at decades. Easily. By now, the blade was probably little more than a rusted toothpick.

It probably would have been, had the blade not been forged from Valyrian steel. Growing ever more curious, Jon took the rag Sam had used to clean the wall and now used it to wipe some of the filth from the ancient scabbard. It was black enamelled, lined with soft leather. Embossed on the front was a faded three-headed dragon, the sigil of House Targaryen. Equally faded, once scarlet letters, read 'fire and blood' in delicate script around the sigil.

The breath caught in Jon's throat as he held it to the fading light of day.

"Sam," he said, his voice higher than usual. "Sam, look at this. Look at it now."

Sam was already at his shoulder, open mouthed and wide-eyed with shock. "That's not … it isn't, is it? It can't be."

"It is." Aemon was up and about again, having groped his way from his living quarters to his bedchamber through touch and memory. Now he hovered in the doorway, his old blind eyes seeking out his two companions. "It is Dark Sister."

Almost too late, Jon felt the sword slipping from his fingers in his shock, but he caught himself and the historic weapon just in time. Giving himself a shakedown, he pulled himself together.

"Maester Aemon, this is kind of you. So very, unbelievably kind of you. But I can't. This sword is … it is legendary and thought lost. I cannot."

Slowly, with shuffling steps that betrayed the Maester's ebbing strength, he crossed the room towards Jon and Sam. Sparing him the effort, Jon stepped forward to meet him, whereupon Aemon steadied himself by placing his hands on his shoulders.

"I am dying, Lord Commander," he began, with no fear at all in his voice. "I might make the journey to Braavos, but I don't think I shall ever reach Oldtown-"

"Maester, don't talk like that."

"Please Sam, listen both of you," Aemon continued. "Brynden Rivers left that sword with me before he went on a ranging and never came back. For all these years, I've held it, awaiting his return. Now all my kin are dead and I never was a swordsman, even before my body betrayed me. I am the last of us, Lord Stark … Lord Commander. When I die, this secret would have died with me. Another kind of death for my house; the death of its history. No, I am truly the last of us. So I gift Dark Sister to you as the son of King Maekar, the first of his name. Take it, for no other can do so. Take it, and use it to do for House Stark, and for the Watch, what I could never have done for House Targaryen."

Jon tried to protest, but found a rather large lump in his throat. His head was spinning and no longer knew if he was holding Aemon up or if Aemon was holding him up. Still he was torn by indecision and now his mind was quite blank.


	12. Stone

Harwin arrived just as Jon was leaving. He could hear the Lord Commander issuing instructions to an unseen companion. "Sam, I forgot to send that raven to the Eyrie. Can you do it for me?" He was so distracted, the two of them almost collided. Jon stopped abruptly, re-shouldering a bag and gesturing to his companions to wait. An old longsword with a battered scabbard hung from his hip. "Well, Harwin. How was it?"

"Cold," Harwin replied, but could inject no humour in his reply. "I never doubted you, Lord Commander. But some things a man must see for himself before he can quite, er, comprehend the scale of the problem."

Truth be told, Harwin went out there knowing what to expect; he'd been told in explicit terms. Dead men rising from the grave. Why, then, had he been so shocked to go out there and see dead men, indeed, rising from their graves? It was a conundrum he wasn't about to waste time figuring out, although he suspected the difference between 'knowing' and 'understanding' had something to do with it. Either way, he returned to safety with an all-pervading sense of doom. If that wall fell, they were all fucked, to a man.

In the meantime, Jon smiled wryly. "Sam, Gilly, Little Sam and Maester Aemon all leave for Oldtown today. I'm going with them as far as Gulltown. If you're looking to return to the Riverlands and don't mind a day in Braavos, you're welcome to join us. Now you've seen what's out there, you can add your voice to mine when I try to convince southern lords to rally to a deposed northern king."

Braavos would have been tempting, before he saw the dead. But no one knew the hell about to crash down on them and the region was in chaos. He was needed in the North far more than he was needed in the Riverlands. "I thank you, Lord Commander. But duty calls me elsewhere, I think."

Jon was puzzled. "Where?"

Harwin smiled crookedly. "I thought I might drop in on the Boltons."

Jon laughed. Laughter that froze and died in the frigid air as he realised Harwin was being serious. But now was not the time to debate the matter.

"Safe travels, all of you," said Harwin casually.

He wrapped his cloak tight around his middle and pulled up the deep hood, covering most of his face. Before he left, he wanted to sharpen the blade of his dagger until it could cut the atmosphere. It was time to cause a little chaos of his own.

* * *

"Robb! Stop it!" Margaery's voice rang out as a spray of water washed over her, splashing against her face, getting in her hair and down the front of her gown. She shrieked against the sudden cold and exacted instant revenge. "You'll be sorry, just wait."

She pulled off her kirtle, leaving only her petticoat, before wading into the river and dunking his head below the surface of the Tumblestone. He had tried to flee from her by pushing himself away from the banks, but she caught him before he could even launch into a semi-decent breaststroke. Barely a second after pushing him under, she felt his arms close around her waist as he lifted her clean off her feet, rising like a river monster with her in a tight clinch. She laughed out loud again, relishing the feel of sun on her cold, wet skin.

It had been a rare day in the Riverlands. Even by evenfall, there was just enough warmth left in the sun to make a swim in the cold river bearable. She had never done anything so impulsive before in her life and she was loving every moment of it. When Robb eased her safely back down again, they were both waist deep in the water, standing so close to each other their bodies seemed almost fused at the hips.

His hair was soaked, turning the auburn curls dark as night. Exertion and cold had left him breathless, and his skin was covered in gooseflesh. But Margaery had lost herself in those vivid blue eyes as he leaned in close and kissed her lips. She felt like she was ten-foot-tall as they locked lips, then his hands began moving slowly down her hips. By the time he reached her thighs, below the river's surface, a warmth began to spread from her groin to her belly.

They were two miles downstream of the camp, completely alone. But even the thought of someone seeing them only served to excite her even more. She had heard men joke about the cold making them small, but that was proving to be a lie right now. She could feel him and she longed to have him inside her. It was a sudden, all-consuming desire. Then…

"I shouldn't be doing this."

With no further preamble, Robb pulled away again and waded to the shore. Understanding his emotional difficulties, she hid her frustration behind a mask of understanding. It was only his sense of honour, she knew that and she knew it was meant to be a fine and upstanding quality in a man. But, gods, it was frustrating. She remained where she was for a second, just to cool off. A feat made difficult as she watched him climb up the bank, naked as his nameday. Unashamed, she didn't even try to tear her gaze away from his backside as he stooped to retrieve his clothes.

 _Gods have mercy_ , she silently implored the heavens.

"I'm sorry," he called over from dry land. "I'm a fool."

"No," she replied. "No, you're right. Now isn't the time."

Once back on dry land herself, she learned the misery of having wet petticoats. But her outer-skirts and kirtle were dry, hanging on a tree branch to keep them clean. Robb was polite and restrained enough to turn his back while she shed the petticoat and donned the rest. Her miniver lined cloak was especially welcome.

"This is madness," Robb continued, still with his back to her as he pulled on his boots. "For both of us. You're meant to be marrying the king; I'm supposed to be dead. What are we playing at?"

"I don't know," she confessed. "All I know is that I'm thoroughly enjoying every moment of it."

It was a basic truth. All her life, she had made decisions only when she knew what the outcome would be. Even when decisions had been made for her, she had agreed to go along with it only when she had figured out a way to control the outcome herself. It had all been part of her training. When she thought about what it must be like to live with any form of uncertainty, she didn't think she'd be able to cope with it. It had scared her. Now it was happening and it was like being swept up in a storm – and she loved it.

Now dressed, they had flopped down on an outspread cloak in a clearing not far from the river's edge. Robb propped himself up on his elbows, looking down at her where she lay flat on her back. Despite what had just happened, he looked happy enough. It made her wonder whether something else was on his mind.

"Seriously, though," he said. "I don't understand why you're doing any of this. You could have taken me captive and handed me over to Cersei. I think she'd love you for life."

Margaery began to wonder. "If I take you captive you'll not be going to Cersei!" She paused, drawing breath. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be flippant. The truth is, we needed to be close to the Lannisters thinking we could take them down from within. Ready for when the time comes for great change. But, the thing is Robb, Cersei is doing quite a splendid job of taking down House Lannister all by herself."

"You sound like you're being flippant again," said Robb. He lay back down beside her, his hands behind his head. "Anyway, what do you mean about the great changes? I thought you just wanted to be Queen."

Margaery was hesitant. "It was certainly a perk. But things changed; new developments occurred, our game changed. It does not do to be inflexible when playing at politics. Forgive my say so, my lord, but that was one of the lessons you learned the hard way."

"I know," he replied, dejectedly. "I know that now. Before all this, I thought honour and truth would see me right. Seems that I was wrong."

"I'm not rubbing it in," she gently assured him. "But nor will I shy from stating that a lot of what happened could have been avoided. Theon Greyjoy and Rickard Karstark – neither needed to happen and you were warned. If I am going to begin working to ally House Tyrell to House Stark, I need your word that you will listen to counsel."

Margaery had to concede that she had lost her heart to Robb Stark. That didn't mean she had also lost her wits to Robb Stark. He'd been declared King in the North just shy of his fifteenth nameday: a fact demonstrated in his utter political ineptitude which he tried to compensate for with a façade of youthful arrogance. Now he was barely eighteen and looking at her with the sheepishness of a spanked toddler.

"I did listen to counsel," he weakly protested. "I just wasn't very good at acting on it."

"Then promise me you'll improve your game," she said. "You're a brilliant general, no one can deny that. You never lost a battle and you were fourteen when you led your first campaign. But take counsel and act on advice. I'm preparing to gamble everything on you, but I need assurances in return that you'll let me play to my strengths, as I trust you to play to yours."

However, she stopped shy of pointing out that she and the Tyrells were more adept at politics than he was. That was the kind of salt in the wounds he just didn't need right now. Besides, she was still working out the finer details of how she would extract the Tyrells from King's Landing and out from under the boot of the Lannisters.

Meanwhile, she propped herself up and looked down at Robb. She feared she had stung him and wanted to show she was not angry. A fact she demonstrated by kissing his brow, soothing the worry lines away.

"Of course, I trust you," he said, at length. "I trust you enough to lure me out of a castle surrounded by armed men who're meant to be my enemies. But I must also do what I think is right for my people."

"I know that," she said. "But first we need to get you back into a position where you can do what's right for your people."

"I know I've been a fool," he told her. "I know it's my fault- "

"It wasn't all your fault, Robb. It was not your fault that the Boltons betrayed you. They would have done that no matter what you did. You weren't to know. The massacre was completely disproportionate to a broken promise and I'll defy anyone who dares suggest Walder Frey might have been justified, for it was indefensible and it was not your fault."

There was a moment of silence in which she became aware of the rapidly failing light, and not to mention the dropping temperature. But neither of them were in any hurry to move, so she kissed him again and this time, he returned the gesture. However, when he spoke again, he soon showed that his mood had dropped.

"Last night, I dreamed I was on trial," he said. "I think it was news of Lord Tyrion's escape that brought trials up. But my father was judging me, as Tywin judged Tyrion. My mother and Lord Karstark were giving evidence against me, with Sansa and Arya. Talisa, Roose Bolton and Theon Greyjoy were acting as witnesses against me. My father would not let me speak in my own defence. However, you were there and you tried to speak in my favour. The trial adjourns but, as with all dreams, it's suddenly recalled in the same instant and my father prepares to deliver his verdict. But I wake up before he can declare me either innocent or guilty. And after I did wake up, I lay awake in bed worrying over my father's verdict as if it were real."

It worried her that he was having such dreams. It was a manifestation of the guilt he still felt over what had happened, from losing the North to the Red Wedding.

"There is no verdict," she said. "How can there be when you have committed no crime and the deed is not yet done? Robb, this is not finished and you are not out of the game."

"No," he agreed. "But it shames me to be reliant solely on you to get me back into the game. And what's worse, Brynden is still insisting on keeping me firmly under wraps which means I cannot even begin to get word to any supporters I may still have left. You're my last hope and my brother, Jon."

"I'm going to suggest we send an envoy to Mereen, in the strictest of secrecy of course," she said. "Perhaps if we can offer aid to Daenerys Targaryen she can bring her army and her dragons over to aid us sooner, rather than later."

Robb frowned, a crooked smile on his lips. "I'm curious to see these dragons, I'll admit that. How many Unsullied did she get?"

Margaery shrugged. "I have no idea. It's why we need inside information, too. We also need solid information on the size of those dragons. And, let's face it, she's coming here sooner or later. It would be for the best if we try to help, rather than fool ourselves that we can see her off."

He was smiling still. "Your plans changed as soon as you heard about the dragons, didn't they? You're weakening the Lannisters in time for the exiled Queen's return. Is that what you're really doing?"

Margaery laughed good naturedly. "You're learning! But seriously, we didn't find out until Joffrey told us. They had reports from Essos, but Tywin wasn't in the least bit worried. However, House Tyrell stayed loyal House Targaryen until the bitter end of the Rebellion. And, naturally, hearing of the conquering queen and her hatchlings has changed things. While we make our plans, she is worth remembering. Anyway, enough of that. This is complicated and it's getting late."

Just before she left King's Landing, she had procured moon tea for her cousin. Lady Elinor, betrothed to Alyn Ambrose, had dallied with some Knight and soon found herself in the family way. Decisive action had been called for and Margaery hadn't hesitated in seeking out the remedy. If only all mistakes were so easily dealt with, she thought to herself.

In the meantime, Robb rose to his feet and held out a hand to help her up. "If I'm not back before sundown my little sister will actually kill me. Then Brynden will bring me back just to kill me again."

"And I cannot allow that to happen," she said, grinning. "I suppose I ought to let you go."

While he got back into his boat, she began the two mile walk back to camp. They had to return separately so they wouldn't be seen together and, more importantly, so Robb would not be seen at all. But once he was gone, even after his boat had pulled away, she did not feel alone.

The wolfpack that inspired so much fear and dread among the locals were circling again. She could not see them, but she sensed they were close. It was the rustle of undergrowth, the occasional breaking twig that followed her on her journey. Every so often she stopped, looked over her shoulder and thought she caught a fleeting glimpse of flashing yellow eyes or grey fur. But she felt no fear at all, none whatsoever. She got on well with wolves, these days.

But when Loras appeared, stepping into the path to meet her, she knew they had melted away again. He looked like a man bearing interesting news.

"You'll never guess what Cersei's gone and done now," he said.

The wolves were gone and now she was only intrigued. "Do tell."

"Remember that scruffy little Sparrow and his following of religious fanatics?" he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he continued: "She's only gone and named him High Septon and armed his followers with cudgels. They smashed up one of Petyr Baelish's brothels."

Margaery could hardly believe what she was hearing. "Really?" she groaned. "What is she playing at now?"

"I don't know, but they arrested all the girls working there," he continued. "They also arrested the man left running the running the place."

Bemusement gave way to a cold sense of dread. "And you sought comfort in his arms, did you not."

Loras nodded. "You met him once, remember?"

"I'm hardly likely to forget," she answered. "And Cersei knows. I mean, she knows about you and Renly. I don't think she would know about you and this brothel manager. But if he talks to these fanatics…"

Up close, back in the light of the camp, she could see the fear in his expression. There was little she could say to comfort him, less by way of reassurance and Loras knew it as well.

"Do you think now might be a good time to withdraw from King's Landing?" he asked. "It would mean us leaving the Riverlands too, but what do we care whether Ser Brynden surrenders or not."

"For now, we stay calm and we change nothing," she said. "At least not until we speak to Garlan and decide where we go from there. However, under no circumstances do we leave the Riverlands. There's something neither of you know. Something huge, which I am not yet at liberty to disclose. This will change everything."

Loras didn't look in the least bit reassured.

* * *

Names had power. Sansa Stark had always known that. Lannisters were not to be trifled with, the Tyrells were wealthy and powerful, the Starks (and she ceded she might be biased) were honourable and upstanding. Meanwhile, there were other names that carried stigma and shame and had the power to keep the name bearers in their place. Snow, Hill, Stone, Rivers, Flowers… the illegitimate by-blows of the various kingdoms that made up Westeros were marked out from their first breaths by the shame of a bastard name.

She found it strange, therefore, that donning the persona of Alayne Stone had been like donning wings and taking flight. A feeling so powerful she even dreamed she was a bird. Sansa Stark had been a victim: bullied, abused and beaten, while being pushed and shoved across other people's gameboards. Alayne Stone was someone else. She was clever, witty and confident. She learned the skill of diplomacy with ease and grace.

Sansa Stark already had some of the skills needed. She was polite and her courtesy had been her armour. But Alayne went much further than that. She deployed Sansa's finely honed courtesies to bring powerful lords around to her way of thinking, and helped to hammer out deals wrought between rival lords. She shed Sansa's daydreaming nonsense and learned to develop Alayne's cool headed rationality and logic. And the difference in how people treated her had been staggering.

People used to pat Sansa's head and tell her how pretty, how courteous and sweet natured a little lady she was. But people respected Alayne, despite being a Stone. They asked for her opinions and they listened as she spoke. Even Lord Royce had asked her what she thought of a deal being negotiated between the Tollets and the Corbrays. After that, Alayne's father had been waiting for her in the solar, smiling indulgently and pouring two glasses of fine wine.

He handed one to her, praising her performance at the meeting. "You're learning so fast, you'll soon be better than me!"

He tried to make it sound light hearted, but she saw a flicker of worry in Petyr Baelish's eye. It was the sort of fleeting thing Sansa Stark would have instantly forgotten, but Alayne Stone knew better. There would come a time when she no longer needed him, and the day was approaching faster than he anticipated.

"I'm learning from the best, father. You can't get better than that," she replied.

 _And you are not my father_ , she added in her head. Petyr had come up with Alayne's name and backstory, his bastard daughter raised in Braavos. But Sansa herself had learned to inhabit Alayne, shedding all the pain and emotional baggage of Sansa Stark in the process. But she was not about to shed her real father, real mother and real sister and brothers. She carried them with her as she made the metamorphosis into this smooth political operator for them, to help win back their home and their lands and titles. She wasn't doing it so she could be Petyr's little pet.

When she wasn't sitting in on important meetings, learning from the Lords of the Vale, she was invariably dealing with the real Lord of Vale. Sweet Robin, Sansa's cousin but no one important to Alayne. He was a sickly boy, beset with shaking fits and terrible fits of temper. Alayne and Sansa were of one mind: there was nothing bloody wrong with him and a damn good spanking would have worked wonders. Alas, Lysa had not agreed and played along to keep the foolish boy weak and utterly dependent on her.

His moods were worse, now that they were preparing to relocate to the Bloody Gate. Winter was close, they were already experiencing shortages as the mules couldn't get up the mountain and if they hung around any longer they'd be trapped and they would die. But these dire warnings did little to improve Sweet Robin's moods. He screamed for food they did not have and smashed his soiled chamber pot over the Maester's head. The smell had been awful, but Sansa had been composed enough for long enough to calm the boy and even get him dressed for the day.

In the meantime, they let him deal with messenger ravens in an effort to occupy his mind. It was never anything important, so they let him decide whether to act on it or not. Usually, it was smallfolk arguing over cattle ownership or licences for markets in Gulltown. Nothing too demanding, but enough to make him start taking responsibility for his lands. Sansa was pleased to find him at the messages again that morning.

He greeted her with a smile, and held one up for her to see. "We got a letter from the Night's Watch. Do you want me to read it to you? The last one I got was really, really funny."

Sansa instantly though of her brother. "Oh, yes please, my lord."

After that, she had an ominous feeling about the last letter that he had not mentioned to anyone. Meanwhile, Sweet Robin cleared his throat and sat up in bed. "It says, the Lord Commander is taking temporary leave and requests an audience with Lord Robert Arryn of the Eyrie…." He broke off and gave her a dubious look. "If he tries to come here I'll throw him through the moon door!"

"You could do that if that it pleased you, my lord," she said, knowing the word 'no' would trigger another wild shaking fit. "But I assure you that Lord Commander Mormont is a very reasonable man and he wouldn't like being pushed out of the moon door. And, if you did, who then would guard the realms of men from the Others, riding their giant ice spiders and the armies of the undead marching on the wall."

She tried to make it sound as dramatic and scary as possible, like Old Nan used to do with them. It was her hope it would excite the boy into accepting the audience.

He looked unimpressed. "Who's Lord Commander Mormont? Say's here his name is Jon Snow."

Outwardly, Alayne's face remained passive and only politely interested. Inside, Sansa Stark's heart was racing at thrice its normal speed. Jon was Lord Commander. A piece of information Baelish hadn't shared, if he even knew. And he was coming here, to the Vale.

"Mormont must have died," she said. "That is sad news. But I think Jon Snow must be very brave to take his place and come all this way to speak to you, my lord. He must think you very important. Don't you think you should grant his audience?"

His interest had been piqued. "Yes, I wonder why he is coming to me? He must need something from me and that makes me important."

Sansa nodded. "Very important. And I have another idea. Why don't you keep this audience a secret, even from Uncle Petyr."

"But, why?"

"You want to prove to Uncle Petyr how capable and clever you are, don't you?" she reminded him. "Well, this is your chance! If Uncle Petyr finds out about this, he will send the Lord Commander away thinking it will make you ill. So, keep it a secret and send your men to escort Lord Snow to the Eyrie without him knowing. Just imagine how surprised he will be when he walks into the common hall and finds you – a proper little Lord coming into your own – dealing with an important man like Lord Commander Snow. Uncle Petyr will have no choice but to allow you to rule after that."

Sweet Robin smiled from ear to ear. "You're so clever, Alayne! But Uncle Petyr's your father. You won't tell him will you?"

Sansa returned his conspiratorial smile. "I promise, I'll say nothing. This will be a secret just for you and me to share."

Damn right it would be their secret, she thought to herself. And if Baelish tried to stop her from seeing her brother, she'd put him through the moon door herself.


	13. A Broken Man

The dungeon walls had given way to a wide-open field and a blue sky that stretched overhead. But the light blinded Reek, making his pale eyes burn and water. The chains had gone from his ankles, but he felt the ghost of them still, chafing his skin and cutting to the bone. His filthy rags had been cut away. But now Theon's old cloak weighed him down, as heavy as a smothering pall. The binds on his wrists had been swapped for soft leather riding gloves. But the flayed skin wept and burned, and the stubs of his fingers screamed with pain when the fabric touched them. He appeared free of his fetters, but his captor lurked over his shoulder, smiling crookedly as this travesty of Theon Greyjoy hauled his emaciated frame into the saddle of a destrier.

"Who are you?" Ramsay asked, approaching the horse and patting its flanks.

Reek was caught in a moment of terrible indecision. He was Theon, but he had become Reek and now he had to be Theon again. Is that what his master meant? Or was he seeking reassurance that, no matter what today brought, he would always be Reek? The wrong answer would cost him dearly and, no matter how he agonised, he never seemed to get the right answer. 'Reek' felt like the safest answer because 'Theon' was a bit above his station. But he was meant to be Theon. He shivered and choked, but a choke was neither right nor wrong and Ramsay was still waiting. Ramsay didn't like being kept waiting.

"Reek!" The word rattled through broken ribs and out through equally broken teeth.

Ramsay sighed like a patient father dealing with an obtuse child. "We've been through this already, haven't we? Today, you're Theon Greyjoy, Prince of the Iron Islands. And have you got the terms of surrender?"

"Y-yes, Master," he stammered, fumbling for a rolled-up parchment in a bag around his shoulder.

Quick as a viper, Ramsay grabbed his wrist and squeezed it tight, sending pains shooting up Reek's arm. "Tell me what it says, Reek. I told you to memorise it, remember? The Ironborn in that castle must think it's come from you."

Malice glimmered in his dull blue eyes, a look that made them seem even more protuberant. Reek knew if he got this wrong there would be hell to pay. And knowing the hell to pay, he found his mind going blank as he was thrown onto the spot. He stammered and stuttered as he tried to form the words, even though he did know the answer.

"F-food," he blurted out. "They get food if they surrender…" Reek the words framed in his head now, all he had to do was calm down and be rational. "If the Ironborn peacefully surrender Moat Cailin, my lord will give them food and safe passage back to the Iron Islands from the Stony Shore."

Ramsay smiled approvingly, making Reek's heart race with relief.

"There, that wasn't so hard now, was it?"

The journey to Moat Cailin began in earnest, flanked by a small company of Bolton men in plain dress. No one spoke, but his captors disguised as companions kept shooting him suspicious glances, as if he might try to break for freedom at any second. But, in Reek's experience, escape was not worth the capture and the thought couldn't be further from his mind.

Instead, he concerned himself with trying to get back into Theon's skin. But Theon's skin had been cut away a long time ago, his old self deconstructed one stab at a time, reducing him to a shadow. Less than a shadow. His black hair had turned white, his body a network of scars and wounds left festering under the fine silk shirt he'd been given for the mission. He felt like nothing more than an imposter wearing Theon's finery. An idiot child dressing up in his father's clothes, finding the boots far too big to fill. He might as well be wearing motley.

By late afternoon, the broken towers of Moat Cailin came veering into sight. Banners bearing the kraken of his House were hanging from the jagged battlements. The sight of them, rather than instilling in him some dormant Greyjoy pride, served only to remind him of how far he had fallen. And he knew, once again, he should have died at the Twins, at Robb Stark's side. There would have been a semblance of honour in that. But, he had betrayed Robb and now he was set to betray his own people. Or Theon's people, at least. Reek had no people. Reek didn't have himself anymore. Reek only had Ramsay.

"Go on then, Turncloak," said one of his guards. "You're on. Play your part well, if you want to keep what's left of your limbs."

Having suffered what he had suffered already, those dire warnings left little impression on Reek. But he shuddered at the sight of the endless black bogs that surrounded Moat Cailin, the denizen of the Crannogmen bog devils that had laid siege to the castle for months. Even Roose Bolton himself had almost been killed while crossing these treacherous lands.

From the top of the destrier, Reek surveyed the scene. It looked peaceful. Stagnant waters rising from black mud, dead trees half-submerged in the ditches. Where the land looked solid, he knew it was not. It was deep, sucking sand that pulled down unwary travellers and drowned them at its ease. Only the Crannogmen themselves knew those lands and the Crannogmen were not their friends. An enmity evidenced by the broken corpses that littered the crumbling walls of Moat Cailin. Many wore Bolton colours, others were Freys and some were Ironborn. All united now, having suffered miserable deaths far from home while attacking a ruin. But a ruin that formed the gateway to the North.

"You first, Turncloak," said another guard.

Long past caring whether he lived or died, Reek gladly obliged. Not even the sight of the blood blossoms growing from the corpses turned him, now. He looked past it all and vanished inside himself as his horse trod the causeway leading to the castle.

Only when an arrow whistled past his head did he snap out of his reverie. A cry of alarm was lost in his chest as another and another arrow shot past him, spooking his horse. The ambush appeared out of nowhere, but seemed to come from everywhere all at once. Arrows were shot from below ground, over ground and from under water. They came from the trees, appearing through the fine mists that drew a shroud over the impenetrable swamps.

His horse reared up in fear, trying to buck him off. Nor did it have to try very hard. Reek was thrown to the ground, met with a mercifully soft landing. All the same, it hurt and he had landed in the dangerous, sucking sands and felt himself bring dragged under. Helplessly, he watched his guards run into the ambush, only to be cut down by arrows, poisoned darts and even a man, a full-grown man, running out of his hiding place and cutting one guard's throat. In the meantime, Reek fought free of the sucking sands only to be captured and pulled to the ground, a blade instantly thrust at his throat. The kiss of the steel blade instantly cut into his skin and he screwed his eyes shut, knowing the end was soon to come. Finally, the blessing of death was granted and he didn't even have to worry about telling Ramsay what happened.

Until…

"Wait!"

It was a woman's voice, but the blade fell away from Reek's throat immediately.

"Who are you?"

The question was directed at him.

"Reek!" he spluttered, eyes still screwed shut. "My name is Reek!"

Rough, heavy hands grabbed his face and dragged him back onto the causeway. They didn't feel like the hands of a woman, but they were. Moreover, a woman he recognised. She gripped him hard, her face almost kissing distance from his own, Lady Maege Mormont. Her brow was creased in a frown.

"I know you, don't I?" she murmured.

Still gripping him, now by the scruff of the neck, she dragged him away from the castle and down the causeway. Panic stricken, Reek struggled and tried to flee. But she held him fast in her powerful arms, more used to wielding an axe than the emaciated form of the Lord formerly known as Theon Greyjoy.

As she hauled him, almost effortlessly, deeper into the swamp, more and more people emerged. Most were little Crannogmen, no larger than children. Others were Greenlanders, like Maege herself. All of them were Stark loyalists, who remained fighting south of the border against the Boltons. Reek's insides turned to water. Ramsay had been bad enough; the remnants of Robb's army would make the bastard of the Dreadford look half a child.

"Hallis!" she called out. "Hallis Mollen, you're needed."

Reek found his tongue, at last. "Reek! Reek! My name is Reek!"

Hallis Mollen, the old Winterfell guard, always did have a reputation for stating the obvious. And he hadn't lost his touch. "Your name's not Reek though, is it? Theon fucking Greyjoy."

* * *

A peculiar sense of longing closed over Robb as he entered the old war council room. A feeling made all the more acute since no one had been inside since the last time he had used it, before he left to attend Edmure's wedding at the Twins. The map table was still there, with the pieces still where he set them, while planning his raids along the Westerlands. It was all covered with a fine layer of dust that made everything look grey. Probably the dust of his own dreams, he thought wryly to himself.

The chairs were still arranged around the table, and he could look at each one and remember who should be sitting there now. At his right, Greatjon Umber. At his left, his mother. He remembered the others just as easily. Something under the table caught his eye and when he stooped to retrieve it, it turned out to be Talisa's bag of medical supplies. Setting it on the table, he opened it to find a jar of ointment, half-used; a roll of bandage linens that had become unravelled and her old ivory comb. Strands of her hair were still tangled around the teeth. Just for a moment, he felt like she had simply forgotten the bag, and would return at any second to retrieve it. But, of course, she was never coming back again and the realisation still seemed to hit him square in the gut.

Even now, he could go for long periods without thinking of her – up to and including falling in love with someone else – and suddenly she would pop back into his head. He would remember she was dead, and the shock of the fact would reverberate through him all over again.

Putting the bag away in the nearest cupboard, Robb sat himself at the head of the table and presided over his council of ghosts. The game had changed so dramatically now, that he barely knew where to begin. He looked down the length of the table, where the wolves were still grouped around the Riverlands and the North Trident regions, and spreading down the Westerlands. With one swift movement, he leaned across the table and swept them all off the map, wiping out his figurine army in one go. The wooden figures clattered to the stone floor, noisily echoing around the rafters.

There was just one wolf left, sitting over Riverrun. It seemed he was facing extinction.

"I thought I heard signs of life in here."

Robb had been so lost in thought, he hadn't even heard the Blackfish enter the room.

"Uncle, you startled me."

Brynden didn't sit down. He leaned against the edge of the table, casting a wary blue eye over the alterations Robb had just made.

"I think you're going to need some rose shaped ones, soon."

Robb raised a pained smile. "Lady Margaery knows who I am."

"What?"

"I know I should have told you sooner," he confessed. "But the time didn't feel right. I didn't know what was happening between us- "

"So, what is happening between you?"

Sheepishly, Robb met his gaze. "I still don't really know. She said she's working to ally House Tyrell to House Stark … but what does that mean? It doesn't sound definite."

Finally, Brynden sat down and turned his full attention to Robb. "If the Tyrells change sides, then this is the best news we could have hoped for. Surely you understand that?"

"Of course I do," he replied. "I'm not completely useless in the field of politics, uncle. But I still need a plan to take back the North, and the Tyrells will be an advantage, I need more than that. They're just one army and I need my own back. To get my army back, I need to liberate the North from the Boltons. Before I can do that, I need to get North, past Moat Cailin. To do that, I need my army back. You don't need to look far to see the mess I'm still in, Uncle."

Brynden looked thoughtful for a moment. "The Boltons haven't got Moat Cailin. The Ironborn are still occupying it and, last I heard, Victarion Greyjoy has recently sent reinforcements."

"That's hardly encouraging," Robb replied. "The Ironborn mean to hold it and I need to get past them. Even if I do, does that mean I abandon the Riverlords who still support me? Do I leave House Frey for now and concentrate on taking back the North?"

"Now is not the time for revenge, Robb," Brynden stated, gravely. "I know it's tempting, but that can come later."

Robb sighed heavily. "If we could win over the Lords of the Vale, all our problems would be solved. Has there been any word from Aunt Lysa?"

Brynden looked away from him, his brow creasing. "That was something I meant to tell you, actually. Lysa died, not so long ago. I didn't want to add to your problems by telling you."

"Dead. What happened to her?" he asked, worried. He had never met his aunt, but still the news darkened his mood.

"Suicide, apparently. Jumped through the moon door," Brynden explained. "Lysa was never happy, Robb. I can't say it came as a complete surprise. The only reason I'm shocked is because I never thought she would leave that boy of hers."

The new Lord of the Vale was his weak and sickly cousin, Robert Arryn. From what Robb had heard of him, he would sooner follow his mother's policy of hiding in the Eyrie than take any kind of action.

"Perhaps, in the meantime, it would be best if I concentrated on winning over the Vale," he ceded. "There's no use planning a military campaign with army I might not even have."

"Yes, you do look rather lonely on that map," said Brynden, casting another wary eye over the painted map table. "But don't forget: you still have us, the Tullys, and the Mallisters and Blackwoods. If we can spring them out of their Frey traps, they can join our host and begin marching North with you. Having the Tyrells onside will help keep them convinced this is definitely a good idea."

But it wasn't just the army he wanted. He wanted Margaery, too. That was still something he suspected Brynden had guessed at, but he still had no wish to talk about it. No matter how hard he tried to shake that feeling, it persisted. It followed him around like an old stray dog. While he grieved Talisa, he was falling sharply for another.

"Where are the Freys?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject. "I know they're not the brightest stars in the sky, but surely they've worked out I'm here. It's not as if there's anywhere else I could go."

The Blackfish laughed. "I wouldn't bank on it, nephew. No, they're probably leaving all the leg work to the Tyrells. Gods, imagine the look on that old stoat's face if you end up marrying the girl and getting that force at your back."

Later that afternoon, when he was back out in the practise yard, he got another taste of how big that army was. He had been sparring with Riverrun's captain of the guards when they were spotted. Well over a thousand men, all marching on Riverrun from the south, the golden rose of House Tyrell flying from masts carried by the standard bearers and outriders. Robb joined Brynden up on the battlements, watching the never-ending procession of man marching.

"What's the meaning of it?" he asked, looking up at his uncle.

Brynden's expression was unreadable. "Best case scenario is Lady Margaery has fallen so head over heels in love with you that she's had her brother call the rest of their banners to join us immediately. Worst case scenario is that she's played you and she's called the rest of her banners here to up the siege and capture us all."

"No," he replied, almost defensively. "She wouldn't have done that."

Still the procession continued. There seemed to be no end to the Tyrell men marching on the Riverlands. They had known, from the off, that hitherto the Tyrells had only come with a token force. It had never been a true representation of the sheer numbers they could, potentially, muster. But this, what Robb was seeing now, was a lot more like it. At the heart of them was a huge golden wheelhouse, drawn by numerous horses. He could not guess at who was in there. Lord Mace Tyrell himself, if the splendour of the vehicle was anything to go by.

Whatever was happening down there, it was clearly something and it made Robb's stomach sink.

* * *

Mystified, Margaery stumbled out of her pavilion, clutching Jeyne's hand so they wouldn't become separated in the crowds that suddenly descended on them. The road to Riverrun was wedged into a bottleneck between the river and the dense forest, which forced the hundreds of men into a single file as they neared the castle. It was probably a good defence measure, should the castle ever come under proper attack. Now, for two women trying to make their way in the opposite direction, it was proving a tricky course of action.

"Are they all from the Reach, my lady?" asked Jeyne.

"Yes, I think so."

Garlan and Loras had already gone into action, trying to shepherd the footsore soldiers into the open fields on the other side of the Tumblestone. There was plenty of room for them there, but it involved fording the fast-flowing river. Still, it was enough to relieve the pressure and afford her and Jeyne space to move.

"Why have they come? Did the Queen Mother send them?"

"Cersei cannot command our bannermen," Margaery answered. "Only my father can do that."

It was a pertinent question, though. For weeks now, she and Garlan had existed with just a token force of Tyrell troops. This was still not the full force – that was a number the Riverlands simply couldn't cope with. However, it was far more than simple 'backup'.

Eventually, they made it past a bend in the river, where the land widened and they escaped the cramped bottleneck. It was there that the great, golden wheelhouse had come to a rest. It hadn't a hope of making any farther along the road, not until the men were successfully detoured to the other side of the river. Margaery regarded the wheelhouse through narrowed eyes, her mind racing as she tried to second guess what all this chaos was about.

However, she wasn't left wondering for long. The rear door opened, a familiar and very welcome face leaning out to greet her.

"Margaery, my dear, come inside quick, I would speak with you."

"Grandmama!" she called out, by way of greeting. "Just a moment."

She had to think quick, but set Jeyne to helping the wheelhouse's horses get fresh water and hay from a nearby field. With the girl occupied, she was free to join her grandmother in the back. Already she was consumed by the feeling that something awful had happened. As such, she got straight down to business as soon as she propped up on cushions in the back of the wheelhouse.

"Why have you come? None of us were expecting you … or your reinforcements."

"They're not reinforcements, child," said Olenna, adjusting her wimple. "They're our escort, while so close to Lannister lands. By morning, we'll be turning around and returning to Highgarden. I couldn't write to you, our ravens were going astray."

"Why?" her tone was sharper than she meant it to be. "Grandmother, what has happened? What about our plans?"

There was a moment's pause in which she could tell Lady Olenna was framing her words. The look in her eye was odd, though. For a moment, she thought she even saw a hint of fear, there.

"Elinor and Megga have been arrested and detained by the Faith Militant, at the whore Queen's instigation," Olenna explained. "Yours and Loras' names are being dragged through the mud, our house is being insulted and now our kin are being attacked in the streets. Your father will no longer stand for it and, for once, I agree with him."

Margaery could scarce believe what she was hearing. "Elinor and Megga? Why? They're just girls, they have done nothing. And what's Loras supposed to have done? He is Kingsguard. If Cersei thinks to use my loved ones against me-"

"Of course, she will," Olenna cut in. "She's been planning this from the start. It's the reason she armed the Faith, it's the reason she bankrolled them – she thinks to turn them into her own personal militia. What's worse, it's a militia hiding behind a veneer of religiosity – what could be more divinely justified than that?"

Does Cersei Lannister even remember what the inside of a sept even looks like? Margaery found herself wondering. "So, this Faith Militant are just doing Cersei's bidding now? Is that the measure of it?"

"You know about the new High Septon, this man they call the Sparrow?" Olenna's voice had dropped to barely a whisper. "Lady Merryweather informs me that Osney Kettleblack had a hand in the old High Septon's death to make room for him, at Cersei's instigation. The same Osney Kettleblack once sent to your chambers to seduce you, where you were to be caught in the act and paraded naked through the streets as a common harlot."

The honeytrap was so obvious she and the girls had laughed at the hapless knight and promptly sent him packing. Nothing had happened and there were plenty of witnesses to attest to the 'nothing' that happened that night. Margaery still wasn't grasping the size of the problem or how it had dragged down her beloved cousins. As for Taena Merryweather, she was a Tyrell spy embedded deep in Cersei's bedchamber. She had tipped them off before poor Osney even knocked on the door of the Maidenvault.

"Kettleblack was arrested as well," Olenna continued. "He was put to the lash and started talking, as any man would."

Margaery groaned. "A man will say anything to end his pain. Surely this wretched Sparrow knows that? So, did he implicate Elinor and Megga in something? What of Loras?"

"I don't know what he said," Olenna replied. "But Taena told me the plan Cersei concocted. After being caught seducing you, you were to be branded a whore and he was to be sent to the Wall to take the black. While there, he was under instructions to kill the new Lord Commander, Jon Snow. Eddard Stark's bastard son. I think Cersei wanted the full set of wolf pelts. After that, he was to be given a lordship and a castle. Who was that singer Joffrey hired for you?"

"The Blue Bard," Margaery answered, feeling numb. "Was he arrested, too?"

Olenna nodded. "Yes. Yes, of course he was. He was put to torture and started singing like a canary."

"The moon tea," said Margaery. "I got Elinor some moon tea."

"Precisely. Which of course, was now meant for you."

They could say what they wanted about her. It was nonsense and no one would believe the word of a man put to torture. But it didn't alter the fact that Elinor, Megga and some of her friends were now rotting in dungeons below King's Landing. No doubt, if she returned to the capital now, she would be joining them. For now, there was nothing she could do.

"Our alliance is broken, then?" she asked.

Olenna laughed drily. "You could say that."

"Good," she replied. "Actually, that's very good. I had been worried, you see, about how we could break our alliance without impugning our House. Now that mad bitch Queen has done it for us. Grandmama, we should be pleased!"

Olenna leaned forward in her seat, her hand resting on her walking stick, looking at Margaery as if she might be running mad. However, the old Lady knew her granddaughter. "From that, I assume there is a much better prospect hiding around here somewhere. Do tell, child. Your father is already on his way back to Highgarden with the rest of our forces. It's not too late to recall them."

Margaery drew a deep breath, composing her thoughts. It was a long story, she supposed, so she cut to the chase. "You know how I came to Riverrun hoping to find Sansa Stark?"

"Yes, is she here?"

"No, but her brother is. Robb Stark isn't dead. He didn't die at the Twins, or anywhere else. He's in Riverrun now, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike back against the Lannisters."

Olenna's face did not change at all, but she fixed Margaery with a sharp, penetrative look. "Well," she said. "That is interesting."

"Yes," Margaery smiled. "I quite agree."

* * *

The prow of the ship knifed through the choppy seas, making the vessel rise and lurch. Jon looked back over his shoulder, to where the wet and miserable city of Braavos vanished in the thick mists that seemed to permanently shroud it. He could just about see the great, mossy-green titan straddling two the islands, its eyes alive with flame. It was the first time in his life that he had ever set foot on foreign soil and, despite it being such a dismal archipelago, it left him hungry for more.

Just as he suspected, Aemon had died. They were lodged in a tavern on the main island, burning broken sticks for firewood in an effort to stay warm. The old man had faded fast. Jon's only consolation was that at least Aemon found out his young great-great-grand niece was still alive and well, flourishing in the cities to the east. The old man had implored them to go and find her, to guide her through the rest of her journey and bring her home to Westeros. She had hatched dragons, they said. Aemon died believing she had fulfilled the terms of an ancient prophesy.

Jon didn't know what to make of that. But nor could he change his route. Dragons and exiled princesses had to wait. Robb could not.

However, one thing had changed, since Aemon's death. Instead of travelling on to Oldtown with Gilly and the baby, Sam had decided to come with him. Gilly and the baby too, of course. Now it was the four of them, embarking on a strange and bizarrely thrilling adventure across the country. Him a man of the Night's Watch who'd never set foot on southern soil before and her a wildling, who'd never seen the other side of the wall. At least they had Sam to get them through.

"How's it going, Sam?" he asked, looking to find his old friend. "Found your sea legs, yet?"

His answer was a pitiful wretch over the gunwale.

Come the dawn, however, and the boat steadied as they neared land. The early morning mists lifted and Jon was greeted by the sight of a rugged coastline stretching as far as the eye could see. He could see the port of Gulltown, and all the little houses and businesses that made it what it was. Seabirds wheeled overhead, the gulls that gave the place its name. But rising above all that, reaching for the skies above them, was the most breath-taking mountain range he had ever seen.

"Those must be the Mountains of the Moon!" Gilly sounded awestruck as she stopped by his side, looking up at the snow-peaked mountain tops. Unlike Sam, she had thoroughly enjoyed every moment of their sailing. "Did you say we're going up there, Lord Commander?"

Jon had tried to explain that she didn't have to call him that, but she persisted all the same. "We are, but you can stay below if you like?"

"No!" she retorted. "I wouldn't miss this for the world. Imagine what you can see from up in those mountains. We'll be able to give a wave to everyone back at Castle Black!"

Her enthusiasm was oddly infectious, however Jon limited his own expectations. "I'm hoping I'll get an audience with some of the Lords of the Vale. House Tollet may listen, if we're lucky. Maybe even House Royce. I doubt House Arryn will look twice at us, but you never know."

He barely knew why he was bothering. But his father grew up there and it was Eddard Stark's name he was relying on to get this audience. Surely they would help Robb, if not the Night's Watch? It was a long way to go to waste one's time and Jon's mood was pessimistic, at best.

By the time they disembarked at Gulltown, it was past noon and Sam was finally coming around. Back on dry land, he rallied fast as the ground remained still and solid beneath his feet. Gilly had the baby bouncing on her hip, Sam loaded their bags onto a pack mule and Jon prepared to lead the animal by its bridle. It was a long journey that lay ahead of them and they set off in earnest.

"High as honour," said Gilly, as they made their way down the harbour. "Those are the words of House Arryn of the Vale, aren't they?"

Jon and Sam confirmed it together as they led the mule between them. Sam was teaching her to read and he was impressed by her speedy progress.

"Where'd you read that, Gilly?" he asked her.

"On the banner that man's holding," she replied, nodding her head toward the end of the wharf.

Jon spotted them immediately, noting that they were walking straight toward them. There were four of them, all in the blue and white colours of House Arryn. Concerned there might be trouble afoot, Jon moved ahead of his companions ready to deal with the men at arms.

"Lord Commander Snow?" the one in charge asked. The others scowled over his shoulder.

"Aye, that's me," said Jon, finding Dark Sister's hilt just to be safe. This situation grew more peculiar by the second and he misliked it.

"Good to meet you, my lord," said the man-at-arms, diffusing the tension immediately. "You're to come with us to the Eyrie, where Lord Arryn awaits you. He and your good friend, Lady Alayne, sent us to escort you."

Momentarily struck dumb, Jon almost forgot himself.  _Who the fuck is Lady Alayne,_  was his first thought. But he was quick enough to pull himself together for sake of convenience.

"Oh! Lady Alayne," he said, smiling from ear to ear. "Gods, I haven't seen her in years."

"Better get a move on then, hadn't we? Come on lads, get these mules loaded up and let's get moving. Lady Alayne expects us there by evenfall on the morrow."

Jon just went with it. Whoever Lady Alayne was, she was clearly calling the shots in the Vale and he needed the help of her and her kind. It wasn't until later, when they reached the foothills of the mountains that Sam found him again, that he revealed his ignorance of the lady.

"So what's the story with you and Alayne?"

Jon shrugged and stifled his bemused laughter. "I have no idea, Sam. I'm looking forward to finding out, though!"


	14. Out in the Cold

Dusk gathered around the Eyrie. A fast, foreboding descent into darkness that shrouded the mountaintops in a smothering pall. All the same, Sansa enjoyed evenfall and the quiet, strangely intimate hours it brought. She liked the winding down of frenetic activity, the solitude brought by the silence and the hours spent in good company beside an open fire. It was a time to take stock and plan for the days ahead.

Her planning brought her back to her cousin's side, as he settled deep into his warm, feather bed. She could feel his eyes on her as she shuttered his windows and fed another pine log to the fire – a smell she loved, that reminded her of home. Nor was she in any hurry, although she knew Sweet Robin grew impatient for his bedtime story. And, these days, no one but her could read him his bedtime story.

As she fussed over the lighting of more candles, her mind wandered back onto Jon. This close to his arrival, her mind was more on Jon than off him. A message had come that he had been delayed by snowfalls and was currently waiting at the Bloody Gate, until Mya could get the mules safely down the mountain pass and back again. There was a young wildling girl and her baby, also in Jon's company, who would be coming up in the supply baskets for the sake of her infant's safety. A wildling girl. That was a curious detail.

However, in truth, Sansa simply couldn't fathom why Jon had come to the Vale. Initially, she had been beside herself with joy at the prospect of a most unexpected reunion with a brother she missed dearly. When she was honest with herself, she admitted she was simply glad Jon was actually alive – given what had befallen all her other siblings. Knowing that now it was just her and him was a searing, twisting pain that wrapped itself around her very soul. She was used to it now, though. The absence of her parents and siblings was just a gaping hole that she lived with every day, whether she was Sansa or Alayne.

Time had passed and the question of why Jon was coming began to play upon her mind. There had to be a reason for him to come all this way. No one knew she was here, beside Baelish, so it couldn't be anything to do with her. And, even if he had known, he wouldn't leave Castle Black just for that. She remembered Lord Royce, whose youngest son was killed on a ranging, not long after taking the black. Maybe that was it? Had they found the young lord's body and were now bringing him home for a proper burial? Even that seemed an unlikely task for the Lord Commander himself. Surely, he wasn't recruiting either. The Watch had what they called "wandering crows" for that and their job was to constantly travel the realm, drumming up support and new blood. She had met one on several occasions: his name was Yoren and he smelled of sour ale.

When her curiosity got the better of her, she asked Sweet Robin what had been in the first letter Jon sent to the Eyrie. The little lord shrugged his bony shoulders and said: "something about dead people, so I threw the letter through the moon door. I don't want to read about dead people."

She could have smacked him for not showing that letter to anyone. Especially something as ominous sounding as "dead people". But, on the basis of that cryptic clue, she had resolved herself to convincing Sweet Robin that, no matter what, he must cooperate with the Night's Watch. To do that, she had to actually get him interested in the ancient order and that called for a special story-time. Anything to make him realise that the Watch was more than just a glorified penal colony.

The candles were lit, the fire was crackling in the hearth, releasing the sharp, piney scent of the logs. It was warm, the boy was tucked up in bed. Now she planned to tell him stories about the brave men of the Night's Watch to turn his blood to ice and haunt his nightmares for years to come. Just as Old Nan had done for generations of Stark children.

"You promised me a scary story tonight, remember Alayne?" he said as she settled on the bed beside him.

Sansa draped one arm around his shoulders, letting him snuggle close as he liked to do. "I remember."

"But where's the book?"

"Oh, the story I'm about to tell you comes from no book, my lord. This story was told to me, by someone who had it told to them by someone who had it told to them, all the way down the generations right back to when it actually happened."

Sweet Robin's eyes widened. "So, this is a scary  _true_  story?"

Sansa smiled sweetly and nodded. "Every word is true, my lord. And that's the best part of it."

After a pause for breath, she began in earnest. Eight thousand years ago, when the ice winds howled out of the north and the snows fell a hundred feet deep. When the days grew shorter and shorter, until the sun failed to rise at all and the whole of the land was plunged into an eternal night. It wasn't long before she found herself echoing Old Nan's words exactly:

"And in that darkness, the Others came from the lands of always winter," she said, relishing the young lord's wide-eyed fascination. "They had skin as pale as frost, their armour was like ice encasing their tall, sinewy bodies and they moved as swift as the wind, sometimes mounted on giant, pale spiders. Their shining blue eyes could pierce the darkness and they raised great armies of the dead, letting them gorge on the flesh of the living…"

Sansa's words trailed off as a memory stirred at the back of her mind. It wasn't long after her father had been executed and Joffrey was having her stripped and beaten in the throne room. Yes, it was around that time, she recalled, but Tyrion had returned. A man from the Night's Watch came to the Red Keep with a dead, rotted arm to show to Joffrey. At the time, she just thought it was horrible and turned away in disgust. Now she could kick herself for being too tied up in her own problems to pay any real attention. She grappled at the back of her mind for the man's name … Alan? Alwyn? Something like that.

"The Others, Alayne," Sweet Robin intruded upon her thoughts. "They were armoured in ice and gorged on the flesh of the living, what next?"

Before she could lose his attention, she put aside that memory and continued her dramatic retelling of the Long Night. She told him of the armies of the dead, the pale spiders big as horses and the Others wreaking destruction upon the realm. Echoing Old Nan once more, she told of the babies smothered in their sleep by desperate mothers; of kings shivering in their castles and hunger and famine that spread across the land as the dead ravaged the living. She spoke of the Direwolves, hungry and howling into the endless night…

"Until there came a hero," she said, reaching the climax of the story. "The greatest hero of them all, who sought the council of the Children of the Forest and forged the special sword of heroes. The sword he used to lead great armies into battle against the Others and the wights under their dominion. His was the sword that brought the dawn, and forced the Others back into the Land of Always Winter. And that hero was the first member of the most noble order of the Night's Watch and it is his ancient sword of heroes handed down to each Lord Commander of the Watch, to ensure the sun still rises every morning and the Others never attack us ever again."

That was a lie, but Alayne Stone didn't care. The boy was suitably awestruck, and that was all that mattered. All he was, was a pair of big, wide eyes peering over the edge of his blankets.

"Is that really what the Night's Watch do?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," she replied. "They don't exist for nothing, my lord. They're all that stands between us and the Others. That's why you must take our visitors very seriously, and help in whatever way you can."

Again, she felt she was stretching a point. During her childhood she had heard many stories about the Others. And that's probably all they were: stories. But if they scared Sweet Robin into helping Jon, it would be worth it. And there was more.

"But to help the Night's Watch, you may have to help Lord Commander Snow take back the North from the wicked Boltons," she said. "Remember what they did to your kinsmen, the Starks?"

Sweet Robin nodded. "I heard about that. Lady Stark was my aunt, but she wouldn't let me make the bad man fly. Still, she was my aunt."

"And her children were your cousins," she reminded him. "And who knows? Perhaps you will be the hero, leading your bannermen into battle to avenge their murders?"

His eyes glittered above the blankets. "And I can have a sword of heroes, too! You would like that, wouldn't you Alayne? Then I can defeat the Others as well. For good, this time."

"I think you would look magnificent with your sword and your armour. A hero and a lord."

That was enough, for now. She had planted the seed of an idea in his head, and she wanted him to think he'd thought of it all by himself. She wanted to leave him alone, imagining himself as the hero with his shining sword, leading his bannermen into battle. Then, when the time was right, she would give him the opportunity to make his fantasy a reality. As for what Petyr was planning, to have her dramatically revealed as the real Sansa Stark before all the Lords of the Vale when she married this Harry the Heir…. Well, she was doing it herself so what could he complain about?

She arrived back at her own chambers, where the maids had poured her a hot bath. The reflection in the mirror showed her the face of Sansa Stark with the mousy brown hair of Alayne Stone. She took off her gown, stepped cautiously into the steaming water and reached for the hair soap.

* * *

The solar was warm and intimately lit. A nimbus of candlelight and an open fire, pine logs crackling merrily. All the same, Robb was on edge. An hour before, he had stood on the gatehouse, worried about the little old lady slowly hobbling down the drawbridge, leaning heavily on her granddaughter's arm. Lady Olenna looked as if one strong gust of wind might blow her right off her feet and into the murky depths of the Tumblestone.

All the same, he she glanced up at the bowmen in the murder holes and Robb could tell she looked them square in the eye. She seemed rather amused by all the carry-on that greeted her arrival at Riverrun.

"Don't be fooled by Olenna Tyrell, nephew," Brynden had warned him. "She might be as old as the hills, but she's as sharp as a Valyrian dagger."

"Do you know her?" he had asked.

"Only by reputation. She has one of those reputations that marches before her, wherever she goes. And now she comes here."

An hour passed from her arrival at Riverrun, during which she laughed off the Blackfishes concerns about river mists and teased the guards with a withering put-down. When Brynden tried to introduce him as his son, she interjected and said: "Ah, your son. It's as well Lord Stark never found out." Margaery met his gaze from her grandmother's side, an apologetic look in her eyes. But he didn't mind. Everyone was going to find out sooner or later, anyway.

Now he and Olenna were alone together in the solar, sitting a mere few feet apart and she was appraising him as a hunter appraises its next kill. Sharp and precise, it was a look that brooked no horseshit. Having granted this private meeting as soon as she arrived, Robb still didn't know what was going on out there. There hadn't been time to talk, yet. And Margaery was down in the common hall with her brothers and the Blackfish. This moment was his turn to be privately assessed.

"I heard so many stories about you, my lord," the old lady began, leaning forward with her hands still on her walking stick. She looked like she might bash him with it if she misliked any answers he gave. "The greatest military commander of his age, the young wolf, the vexation of the mighty Tywin and the endless thorn in the side of Joffrey, the greatest shit who ever lived. Now I find you, hiding behind your uncle's walls, waiting for … what exactly?"

Robb felt his mouth run dry. "My army was massacred, my lady-"

"So I heard," she cut in. "I know what happened. The whole realm knows what happened. That's not what I am asking. I'm asking what you're doing now."

"Yes, I understand," he replied, grappling to keep himself together. It seemed his alliance depended entirely on the impression he left on this matriarch. "First, I only wanted to state the difficulty of my predicament. Before your army arrived to lay siege, I wrote to my brother at Castle Black – he's lord commander of the Night's Watch, you see. He's arriving via the Vale, from Gulltown. Lord Robert is my cousin and I'm hoping he will consider coming to my aid. Many Northern Houses are still loyal to House Stark and I am seeking to rally them, in a way that keeps my existence a secret from House Bolton."

She seemed pleased, to his relief. "So, you haven't been sitting around here just hoping and waiting for the Tyrells to fall into your lap."

"Or course not," he replied, feeling almost affronted. He pulled back then, hesitant to say more, but he felt he had to. "No, I would never put that on to Lady Margaery. And there's also Riverlords, the Mallisters and Blackwoods, who still fly the Stark banner. I am hoping to rally them, when we begin planning our return campaign."

Lady Olenna smiled and nodded her head. "I am not without sympathy for your plight, Lord Stark. But, you must understand, I have sat back and watched my granddaughter being used by two men now. One of whom was an irredeemable sword-swallower far more interested in her brother than her. The second was the most vicious little cunt you could have the misfortune to meet. She almost married a third, that was just a foolish little boy who could bring her only problems. But it wasn't so bad. You see, Margaery knew what she was doing with those men. She didn't love them any more than they loved her. She understood that the marriages were just an agreement between two houses. She knew, and understood, she was being used and she used them in turn. Do you understand, Lord Stark?"

Robb nodded, although he thought there was some salient point he was missing. "But this is different."

Olenna nodded. "Yes, this is different. My granddaughter loves you. She hasn't told me, she doesn't need to. I've heard her talk about you and I've seen her look at you. For her, any alliance between our houses is more than just a contract."

"I don't look at Margaery and see only her army or her resources, my lady," he answered, quickly. "In the beginning, when I was just Brynden's bastard to her, I tried to stop myself from feeling anything for her. My wife had not long died, my parents not long dead, my army not long massacred. I had nothing to give her, not even a scrap of land in the Neck. So, please understand, I tried to stop this from happening. But the heart is as the heart does, I find. And yes, I have – and will continue – to look beyond the Reach to rebuild my forces. I don't want Lady Margaery just for that. And … I love her too."

Finally, she relaxed and sat back. She even let go of her walking stick to sip at the wine he had poured her. He had a feeling she hadn't organised this private meeting just to give him a warning about messing with her granddaughter, although he was strangely touched by her concern for Margaery's welfare. He had the impression her family used her only to their own advantage.

"Did Margaery tell you about her cousins?" asked Olenna.

Robb frowned and shook his head. "No, we haven't spoken yet."

She started from the beginning, with Cersei arming the Faith Militant and secretly organising an investigation into the Tyrell household at court. The plants sent into her chambers, the tortured singer and the scurrilous rumours being used against them. Now Megga and Elinor Tyrell were left festering in a Faith Militant dungeon and the alliance was formally broken.

Cersei, he concluded, was an even bigger fool than he could ever have guessed.

"House Tyrell and House Stark are both out in the cold," she said, by way of conclusion. "I think, perhaps, it is time we began to keep each other warm."

And Cersei's loss was to be his gain. For days and weeks, he had agonised over how to win the Tyrell alliance. His was not a promising hand: a deposed lord with almost no army to call his own. Now Cersei had won the alliance for him. He marvelled at her incompetence. There was just one thing nagging at his mind.

"My Lady, if you raise arms against the crown, will Cersei not execute Lady Elinor and Lady Megga?"

Olenna laughed a deep, throaty chuckle. "You don't fully appreciate the depth of Cersei's stupidity, my lord. Elinor and Meg are not her prisoners. They're the prisoners of the Faith Militant, who answer to the High Sparrow. The High Sparrow answers only to the seven, and Cersei be damned."

Robb could scarcely believe what he was hearing. "So, should you convince the High Sparrow that the girls are mere innocent victims of political machinations, they'll just be released into your care? Cersei has no power to call for their heads."

"Precisely," replied Olenna. "And when the High Sparrow finds out about who the real father of her children is … well, it will be interesting, to say the least. And that's before we get drawn on Lancel Lannister's testimony, which should also prove to be quite interesting."

"Is he a prisoner of the Faith, too?" he asked, curious.

"Even better, he's one of them," she laughed. "And I have it on good authority that his conscience troubles him over the death of King Robert. Cersei has ruined herself, but we are now more concerned with the North."

"Cersei still has allies in the North," said Robb. "House Bolton, who destroyed my house, solely for Winterfell and peace with the Lannisters. And there's the Freys in the Riverlands, of course. If I can defeat them with House Tyrell's help, I can rally the Riverlands to march North with us. We will also, of course, help protect the Reach while the bulk of your forces are with me in the North."

"And together we can crush what's left of Cersei's hold on power," she agreed. "But you must be out there with them, Lord Stark. This is your revenge much more than it is ours. You have lost much more than us. Now you must step up to the challenge."

"I know," he said, with a little more confidence than he felt. "I know what I must do."

She seemed to see through his attempt at bluster. Her gaze sharpened and she fixed him more keenly.

"You're ashamed of what happened, I can see it in you," she observed. "You need your self-respect back, and the only way I think you'll get it is out there on the battlefield. You certainly won't find it while cooped up in here. Be the Young Wolf again, Lord Stark, and show that Lannister bitch you're not done yet."

Olenna was right. This deathless death he'd been suffering since the siege began was starting to cripple him. Now it was enough. He realised it there and in that moment, he had to get up off the royal side of his arse and start doing things. And now he had the army to help him do it.

"What of Lord Tyrell?" he asked. "Surely he would need to approve any alliance."

"You leave Mace to me," she said, sternly. "He's my son and he'll do as he's told, if he knows what's good for him."

That brooked no argument, so he let it be. "Thank you, Lady Tyrell."

She paused as she got back to her feet and regarded him once more. "Take care of my granddaughter, Lord Stark, and I will thank you in good time. Now, no more moping. We have a war to win."

Back in the common hall, he sought Margaery out among the small crowd. Ser Garlan and Ser Loras were both there, already pouring over maps with the Blackfish. They greeted him warmly, shaking his hand and giving him a slap on the back.

"I should have known there was more to you the moment I saw you fight," said Garlan. "Bloody kicking myself now, my lord."

Loras' white cloak of the Kingsguard had been draped over the shoulders of an ornamental suit of armour in the corner, abandoned and forgotten. "He's not a 'my lord' he's a 'your grace'," he tersely corrected his brother. "Forgive me, your grace."

Robb waved it away. "I'm nothing right now, Ser Loras. But tomorrow, who knows?"

There was no time to discuss it and he had no inclination to quibble over titles. All he wanted was Margaery, who peeled away from the women she was talking to and walked right up to him and greeted him with a kiss. This time, he did not fight the feelings he had for her. She was to be his wife and he her husband. The kiss lingered, the sweetest thing of all. He found her hips and drew her closer.

Only yesterday, he might have been worried about such a gesture. He might even have thought:  _what about Tommen?_  As if Tommen lay down every night and thought:  _what about Robb Stark?_  Why should he spare a second's thought for the fool king? Every time he imagined Tommen, Robb saw him as he was in Winterfell's sparring yard the day he was defeated by Bran. Rolled up in so much padding he was as wide as he was tall. That's how Robb pictured him sitting on the iron throne, all swaddled up like a fat dumpling, slowly being skewered on Aegon the Conqueror's rusted barbs. Let him be skewered, the iron throne was nothing more than a novelty chair being fought over by mummers and fools.

Of course, such thoughts couldn't have been further from his mind as he kissed his future bride. The deed was as good as done and Cersei may as well be the one officiating their marriage. They parted and smiled to the sound of a rapturous applause.

* * *

While scaling the wall remained as the most terrifying climb Jon had ever made, by the time he reached the Eyrie, he knew this was a close second. At times, the ledge they followed was barely wide enough for their mules, the drop below them was thousands of feet straight down. Sometimes, he couldn't even see the bottom of these abyss like ravines. Then the stone steps leading to a castle built into the rock itself, were covered in ice just to make it even more terrifying. All they had to assist them were sure-footed mules and a guide named Mya, who made it look easy.

By mid-morning, they had made it to the final stage. The thin mountain air was making Jon lightheaded, on top of the vertigo and the exhausting climb. But they were met by Lord Royce, a man he remembered from when he visited Winterfell years before, while escorting his son to the wall. He shook Jon's hand and welcomed him to the Eyrie before escorting him and Sam on the final leg of the journey. For the sake of safety, Gilly had already gone up in the supply baskets, the baby clutched to her breast.

All through the climb, he had wondered about Alayne. Now he was here, he feared she would see him, realise it was mistaken identity and then throw him back down the mountains. He had not a clue who she could be. However, Mya knew her and claimed her as a friend and offered "Petyr's daughter" by way of a clue as to her identity. Now it was Lord Royce's turn.

"Oh yes, Petyr's bastard daughter from Braavos," he said, expanding on Mya's answer just a little. "Nice girl. But I can't shake this feeling I've seen her somewhere before. It's really quite unnerving."

Jon could safely say he didn't know anyone from Braavos and Alayne remained an enticing enigma.

"My condolences on the death of your father and brother, Lord Commander," said Lord Royce as they made the final climb. More icy steps leading to the castle. "I remember Lord Eddard well from his time at the Eyrie. Your brother was a good, brave lad too. Between you and I, many here, myself included, would have been at King Robb's side, but for orders."

"Thank you, my lord," he said, hesitating before just blurting out that Robb wasn't actually dead. He glanced down the narrow path, making sure Sam was still alive. He was, but only just. He was pale with terror, struck dumb and sweating profusely. Business could wait until they were back on firm, steady ground.

They entered the Eyrie through the basements and up into a common hall, currently empty. But it was solid ground and steady, which was all Jon cared about by that stage. They were handed over to a maid, who brought them to rooms she told them Lady Alayne had ordered to be prepared for them. And, after exchanging another bemused look with Sam, they found themselves being ushered into fine chambers – much more than he expected. Gilly had her own room, complete with cradle for the baby. Sam and Jon's rooms were adjoined with a connecting door. They had plush feather beds and fires were roaring in the hearths. All were welcome, after the trip they'd had since Gulltown.

Most welcome to Jon was the tray of good food and hot honey mead, which he dug into straight away. Sam, however, was still a little pale and clammy from the climb.

"Any minute now and this Alayne is going to realise I am not the person she thinks I am and fling us both back down the mountain pass," he remarked, rolling up a slice of sweetmeat. "So make the most of it, Sam. Go on, eat."

"No thanks," came the shaky reply.

And the mystery continued. Maids came to pour them both hot baths in their respective rooms, after which they dried and donned fresh clothes provided by the Lord of the Eyrie. Only after that were they brought to the common hall, now populated by the Lords of the Vale. Over them all, a small boy ruled from a weirwood throne. The height and size only served to emphasise how small he was, a matter not helped by the maester, who actually wiped the boy's nose himself. Jon was almost embarrassed for the boy.

Next to catch Jon's eye was a man of roughly thirty years, half way up the dais and surveying the room with a shifty-eyed stare. "I did not know we were expecting visitors from the Night's Watch. Why wasn't I told?"

"I'm dealing with them," said the boy on the weirwood throne. He sounded petulant. "I said to Alayne that this is important and Alayne agreed with me. She did. She said so!"

Lord Royce leaned in close to Jon's ear. "Excuse him, Lord Commander. The boy is difficult, but it seems he is interested. I would press the advantage while you can."

"Baelish seems not to agree, my lord," Jon replied. "Is he the Lord Protector?"

"Baelish be damned."

Jon suppressed a laugh as he let Royce lead him to the front of the gathering. But Baelish came up to meet them, staring up at him defiantly. "Lord Commander, there's been a mistake. You have no audience."

"There is no mistake, I invited him here."

It was a girl who spoke. Jon whipped around toward the source of the noise, where the crowd parted once more to admit a girl of about fourteen. Her hood was drawn up, concealing her face until she was level with Jon and Lord Baelish.

"Alayne," he said, warningly. "Alayne, remember all that I have done for you. It would not be right for you to be ungrateful now."

The girl looked to Jon and lowered her hood, revealing familiar auburn hair. "I am not Alayne Stone. I am-"

"Sansa!" he blurted out so loud it echoed from the rafters. "Sansa Stark!"

Silence fell over the hall as Jon looked his sister up and down. Had it not been for all the people watching and all the madness breaking out around them, he would have held her tight and not let go. But it was only now he realised how wrong everything was. Why was she here? Why was this man forcing her to pretend she was his daughter? Why the false name? Jon felt sick.

"Jon," she said, pleadingly. "Jon, tell them who I am. Don't let him keep me here; tell them I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell and I cannot be held here against my will."

Jon no longer cared who was watching, he wrapped his arms around her and let the lords fight among themselves. He let the accusations fly and the shouting match begin. He and Sansa were the still eye of the storm, where they clung to each other for dear life. Swords were being drawn, Baelish swiftly being surrounded. Sansa dried her weeping eyes and turned to look.

"Let him be," Jon said, pulling her back into his arms. "Let them all be, sister. There is much you need to know."


	15. Lifting The Veil

If there was one thing Sansa knew for sure about Petyr, it was that he was well able to look after himself. In the face of the wrath of the Vale Lords, he had held out his hands in a gesture of surrender, smiled and began his silver-tongued explanations and justifications like a child talking his way out of a bout of mischief making. Meanwhile, poor Sweet Robin had had to be carried out of the hall by the Maester twitching, frothing and calling out her name over and over.

"Alayne… Alayne… Alayne!" he echoed all down the outer-galleries, as he desperately tried to squirm from the Maester's arms.

All the while, Jon held her close and she held him, unable and unwilling to let him go. She could tell he was half-numb with shock and disbelief himself. She yearned for privacy, but for the moment, there was no escape. Worse still, any minute now and the Lords could turn their swords upon her. If they believed she murdered Joffrey, if they fancied currying favour with Cersei, if Sweet Robin was so angry he ordered it… But this was a chance she knew she had to take.

"My Lords! Enough!"

Lady Waynwood was on her feet, looking each man in the eye. Startled, Sansa and Jon parted to watch her, waiting for what was next while hardly daring to breathe. When Lady Waynwood had the floor, she continued:

"Clearly, we have been lied to, and I am never surer of anything than when I say I'm certain Lord Baelish has a whole array of excuses and reasons as to why this happened." Chastened, Baelish shut his mouth as Lady Waynwood paused and turned to Sansa. "For clarity, is this true: you are Lady Sansa, of House Stark?"

"I am," Sansa replied, tremulous and weak. After drawing a deep breath to gather herself, she continued more assuredly: "And I didn't murder King Joffrey, I had no part in it. Yes, I fled the capital after the murder but only because I knew I would be unfairly blamed. Cersei would never have given me a fair trial, no more than our father was given a fair trial."

"I know my sister, she is no murderer," Jon added, firm and loud as he addressed the whole assembly.

She could see he was still in shock, his eyes widening in bewilderment. It seemed he hadn't even heard about Joff's death, let alone her own alleged involvement in it.

Meanwhile, there was a moment of silence which seemed to draw out forever. Sansa stood, rooted to the spot as she waited for the allegations against her to fly. But, all that happened, was Lady Waynwood approached her, placing her hands on Sansa's face, cupping her cheeks as her mother once did.

"Have no fear, my lady," she said, softly. "Who here do you think cares one whit about Joffrey Lannister?"

Behind her, Jon turned from dire seriousness to stifling laughter.

"A bastard born of incest is no true king," another pointed out. "We would have been fighting alongside House Stark from the moment of Ned Stark's arrest, had we had our way."

His declaration was met with a cheer of approval and Sansa felt suddenly weak-kneed. She linked her arm through Jon's, who managed to discreetly hold her upright as he leaned into her ear.

"You need to get them onboard, Sansa," he whispered so only she could hear. "And we need to talk. There's much you don't know."

Before she could say anything, Petyr spoke up with the desperation of a drowning man seizing at the first passing life raft. "And we will join the fight, my lords. When the time is right."

"And when will that be, Lord Baelish?" she asked, getting her wits together again. "The longer we tarry here the more I think the chance is gone. The Boltons have Winterfell, my family is decimated and the Lannisters are stronger than ever. All the while, I'm stranded on this mountain pretending to be your daughter and getting nowhere. If we're going to join the fight then it must be now. Not next year. Not even next week. We must end this Mummer's farce now, before we end up a laughing stock!"

"Lady Stark is right, Lord Baelish," Lord Royce declared, stepping up to the front. "Lady Lysa took your advice and stayed her hand. We waited for the call, and it never came. Might I remind you that Ned Stark was like a son to the Vale and we did nothing when he was arrested and murdered on the steps of the Great Sept. We did nothing during the war of the five kings, when we should have been at the Young Wolf's side. We did nothing, as the battles were fought and won. We did nothing as the Red Wedding unfolded. And we're doing nothing now that our neighbours are besieged and our allies run into the ground. Enough, I say. Enough!"

His angry outburst was met with another roar of approval from the assembled lords. While others got to their feet to add their voices to his. Petyr was the one looking besieged now.

"You've made us look like cravens!" one declared, to a chorus of agreement.

"My lady," Waynwood whispered in her ear. "Take your brother somewhere private for now. But you may want to speak with Lord Arryn, only he can call his banners."

Sansa nodded, all too grateful to be given an escape. She took Jon's hand, motioning to his companions to follow as she led them through the hall. In the outer-gallery, with the lord's voices muffled by the closed doors, she allowed herself a moment to pause and think and steady her shaking limbs.

Jon, his friend, the wildling girl and her baby … all had been perplexed and bewildered by the goings on inside that hall. She almost felt guilty for ruining their plans – the real reason they had all made the long journey from Castle Black to the Vale. Only Jon was smiling, still looking her up and down as if he couldn't believe it was her. She felt the same way about him.

"I think we have them," she said, beaming.

Jon sighed heavily, a weight seeming to lift from his shoulders. "But what about that boy? The one foaming at the mouth. Please, tell me that isn't the actual Lord of the Vale. It's him we need to convince."

"Yes," she agreed. "But it's not so bad as it looks. He can be a sweet boy, really. If you handle him properly."

Looking far from convinced, Jon let the matter drop and introduced her to his friends. The four of them soon slipped into idle chatter as they returned to Jon's rooms in the upper-levels of the castle. She had chosen that spot thinking they could talk privately. A somewhat defeated attempt since their first meeting had been conducted in public, before all the Lords of the Vale. She could curse Petyr for forcing her hand in so vulgar a manner.

Once Sam, Gilly and the baby had been returned to their rooms, Jon led her to his own and locked the door behind them. Alone at last, they flung their arms around each other as if they were reuniting all over again. It wasn't long before she was growing tearful again and had to withdraw just to pull herself together.

"I'm sorry," she said, laughing through her tears. "I'm being silly."

"You are not," he replied, handing her a scrap of a handkerchief. "But there is something I need to tell you. And it's not something I could say in front of all those people."

She dabbed her eyes and folded the handkerchief. "Tell me what?"

Before talking, he guided her to a seat close to the fire. Only when she was securely seated did he inform her of Robb's survival. He carried on talking after that, some kind of explanation of how Robb did it, what happened and where he ended up. But Sansa barely caught a word of it. Her mind felt like it had gone blank, to the point where she almost forgot who Robb was.

"You mean our brother?" she asked, wide-eyed with incomprehension. "Our brother who was murdered?"

Jon, now sat in front of her, nodded. "He's not dead, Sansa. He wasn't even in the Twins, he was outside because Sandor Clegane had brought Arya to him."

"Sandor…" she whispered, the rest of her sentence seemed to trail off into her own confusion.

But Sandor made sense. She remembered he'd fled King's Landing after the Blackwater, so it could have happened. He could have found Arya and brought her to Robb. But she still felt like she was having her hopes raised, only to be cruelly dashed again – it had happened so many times she now just expected it. Joffrey did it when he promised to spare her father's life. The Tyrells did it when they said they wanted to get her out of King's Landing. They threw her a lifeline only to reel it in when she got within touching distance. And every time, she sank a little deeper in her own despair.

Jon's not like that, she reminded herself. He wasn't cruel, like Joffrey. He wouldn't tease her or make fun of her for being naïve. All the same, what he was saying seemed impossible.

"Is it real?" she asked, nervously climbing to her feet. "Robb's alive and Arya too? Please don't joke with me, Jon."

Jon got up with her, his hands steadying her as she rose, as if worried she might faint at a moment's notice. "I would never jest you over something as serious as this. I'm not some power-mad Lord toying with you. I'm your brother."

Quickly, he turned away and rummaged through his possessions. "Harwin. Remember Harwin from Winterfell? He told me all about it. He made the journey from the Riverlands to Castle Black, telling me to come south and try to raise an army for Robb, because he's trapped at Riverrun. That's why I came, Sansa. Not just the Watch, but for Robb."

He pressed two documents into her shaking hands, urging her to read them. She could barely make out the words through the tears now swimming in her eyes. A decree of legitimisation and a letter, written in Robb's own hand and affixed with his seal. Her heart beat raced in time with the dawning comprehension that this was real, Robb was still out there. And, what was more, he was out there in need of her help. And Arya, too.

"We need to go!" she gasped, staring wildly at Jon. "We need to go right now!"

"Sansa, you need to raise the Vale. We should go with an army, remember?" he was looking a little worried.

 _They could get the supply baskets down the mountain, then catch Mya and the mules before sundown, if they rode hard for the lowlands they could reach ground level by evenfall and to the seven hells with the damn mountain clans, she'd take them on herself if need be…_  As her racing thoughts crashed through her mind all at once, she felt her knees giving in as she passed out cold in her brother's arms. This was all too much for one day.

* * *

The Crannogman was the size of a child, but showed his maturity with a full beard. Barely taller than Arya, he stood straight-backed and with his chest out. He may as well have been looking the Greenlander lords that surrounded him square in the eye. They may have been a diminutive people, but they were proud and they had their own way of doing things. Accordingly, when he entered the great hall of Riverrun, Robb sat up and took notice of the visitor. Beside him, Margaery remained on her feet, one hand resting gently on his shoulder.

Usually, Crannogmen remained the Neck and avoided the sneers of the larger folk who populated the neighbouring lands. There had always been a level of antipathy between them. However, Ser Garlan had lived up to his nickname of 'the gallant' by immediately setting the Crannogman at his ease, discussing the history of the area and their famous attacks on the Ironborn. Bread and salt had been eaten and guest rights extended.

"We learned of your grace's survival from Freys we captured trying to cross the Neck," he began. "We managed to coax a few words from one or two of them, you see."

A murmur of laughter rippled across those seated at the dais. By 'coaxed' they all guessed he meant with a poison dart trained at their chests and a knife to their throats.

"Of course, we thought they were lying," he continued. "A man would say anything to save their own skin and what better way to do that than by telling us what we wanted to hear. But more and more of them said the same thing: that your grace was alive and on the run in the Riverlands. Some said you roamed with a pack of wolves around you, great fearless beasts. Then a captured Bolton told us. All in all, Lord Reed was of the opinion that too many people had told us the story of your survival for it not to be true. And now, I see, it is true."

Robb nodded. "Aye, it's true. You can tell Lord Reed that and send him my thanks for all that he's done to guard the Neck for me."

"That I'll gladly do, your grace. But there's more," the Crannogman continued. "Lord Reed sent me here to bring you this…"

He gestured toward the door of the great hall, which opened and let in a long shaft of sunlight from beyond. Robb caught the sound of scuffling, rasping breath and subdued whimpering. Curious, he frowned deeply, sitting up a little straighter. Behind him, Margaery stepped to the edge of the dais and exchanged a look with him. Robb could only shrug as the prisoner was led inside the great hall.

Surrounded by Greenlanders and Crannogmen alike, the prisoner was tied at the wrists and bound at his feet. Hence the scuffling footsteps. The prisoner's back was bent, his head lowered. Thinning hair covered his head, pure white and torn out in patches. He was emaciated and covered in scars, he looked seventy if he was a day. For a moment, Robb squirmed with discomfort.

"I do not condone the mistreatment of prisoners," he said, gently. "I mean not to chide Lord Reed-"

"Forgive me, your grace, he was like this when we found him," the Crannogmen interjected.

Knelt on the polished oak floor, the prisoner kept his head down and it sounded like he was crying. A pitiful, rasping choking noise that sounded like a cat coughing up fur. Teardrops splashed onto the oak boards beneath the man's knees.

"Who is he?" asked Robb, frowning deeply.

A small, quavering voice stumbled over an answer. "Reek… my name is Reek."

Robb rose to his feet and joined Margaery at the edge of the dais. "Sorry, what's your name?"

Margaery stood on tiptoes and whispered in his ear: "I think he said 'Reek'".

"Reek … my name is Reek."

The prisoner was met with a horrified silence from the onlookers. Ser Brynden stepped forward and tried to bring a chair to the prisoner, only for the prisoner to fall forwards flat on his face. It was as his great-uncle lifted him up again that Robb noticed he had no teeth left. Even his face was scarred, but it was familiar all the same.

"What do you mean by bringing him here?" Olenna demanded. "If that were a dog I would have ended its suffering a long time ago."

A murmur of agreement swept the room, but Robb held up his hand for silence.

"Wait," he said, stepping down from the dais.

A chill closed over him, despite the nearby fire. Taking slow measured steps, he approached the creature bound on the hall floor, catching a full face of his rotten stench. It was like a cloud that surrounded him, clinging to his scrawny, ravaged body just like the rags he wore. The closer Robb got, the more the man cringed and whimpered. He repeated the name Reek over and over again, choking it through sobs and coughs.

The others were horrified, staring in silence as the creature fell apart before their eyes. But Robb was starting to realise… the features were starting to reassemble in his mind's eye. It didn't take much longer for him to start wondering whether it was the stench that was making him feel sick, or the fact that it was Theon Greyjoy. He didn't know. He didn't care. His fist connected to the Ironborn's jaw, sending him reeling backwards and a spray of blood splashing against the wall at his side. Theon's cry of pain filled the hall, bringing gasps from those watching in horror.

Margaery was pale with fear, looking at him as if she no longer recognised him.

"That was poorly done, your grace," Ser Garlan said, gently rebuking him.

Even Brynden looked horrified. "What's gotten into you, nephew? The poor wretch is half-dead."

They didn't know. None of them knew. Robb realised he must look like a larger, smarter version of Joffrey in that moment, but he couldn't bring himself to say anything. Only Margaery realised something was horribly wrong. She came to him, gently tugging back toward his place on the dais. But it was Arya who spared him the pain of having to tell everyone. She sprang from the shadows with her face contorted in pain and anger, spitting his name as though it was venomous.

"Theon!"

She launched herself on the prisoner, spitting in his face and lashing out with fists and feet. Unable to protect himself, Theon buckled and fell to the floor, curled up as tight as he could be. Robb caught Arya, managing with great difficulty to drag her away while everyone else on the dais sprang into action.

"Get him out of here!" Blackfish commanded. "To the cells, damn it!"

Robb kept a firm hold of Arya, while Margaery held on to Robb himself. She was whispering in his ear, soothing words of comfort he could not make out over the sound of his pounding heart and rushing blood.

"You shouldn't have dropped him here without a word of warning," said Garlan. "What were you thinking?"

"Why don't you just kill him?" Olenna asked. "I mean, really!"

Robb was still stunned and silent as Theon was hauled off the cells beneath Riverrun. Only once he was gone did he manage to extricate himself from Margaery's arms, whereupon he made for the door quickly and vomited violently over the threshold.

* * *

Jon kept his voice down as he explained to Sam what was going on. They had met on the terrace their adjoining rooms shared, while Sansa recovered inside. It all seemed to get a little much for her and she had passed out clean in his arms. Now she lay on his bed, sleeping it off with a little dreamwine from the Maester. He could see her still, as he had kept the terrace door open. When she awoke, he would notice right away.

"I've heard of Petyr Baelish," said Sam. "I heard my father talking about him. He was Robert's Master of Coin, so how come he's ended up Lord Protector of the Vale?"

"More to the point, how did he end up as near sole custodian of my orphaned sister?" Jon said. "I mislike it, Sam."

"Oh no, my father said no one at court trusts him," Sam added. "I think he's one of those sly-courtier types who, even if you threw him to the wights beyond the wall, he'd only end up as Chief Advisor to the Great Other."

Jon laughed, but quickly composed himself. After all, it was probably true. Furthermore, it was a truth he was quick to verify when Sansa awoke some hours later.

Groggy and confused for a moment, she came too and apologised profusely for passing out on him. But Jon had to cede it had been an emotionally fraught day. First their reunion, a fight in the hall, getting most of the Vale Lords on side and then being told her siblings aren't dead. It was quite a lot for anyone to take on, especially in the space of a few hours.

"Hullo again, Sam," she said, joining them on the terrace. "I probably didn't have the presence of mind to say it before, but it is nice to meet you. Gilly and baby Sam, too."

"And you, my lady. Jon's told me all about you, and Arya."

Sansa laughed lightly. "About what an awful brat I was, I bet."

"Definitely that," Jon interjected. "At great length."

Sam shuffled aside to make room on their bench for her. For a long moment, Sansa looked out over the mountaintops, now covered in a soft-falling dusk. It really was a most exquisite view. In the meantime, Jon tried to put his finger on how Sansa had changed. Because she had. The starry-eyed girl full of dreams had gone. In her place was a young woman who, according to Lord Royce, practically ran the Vale at Baelish's side. She was competent and capable and learning fast.

"Lord Arryn came looking for you, he was worried about you," said Jon. "I wouldn't have minded, sister. He knows your name is Sansa, but he's still calling you Alayne."

"He doesn't like change," she said. "But he'll get used to it."

Jon smirked. "Nor do fainting fits excuse you from bedtime story duties, either. Sorry about that."

She sighed heavily. "Of course. Mustn't forget the bedtime story."

"Tell him the one about the little lord who shook so much he slipped on his own drool and accidentally fell through the moon door," he suggested.

Sansa was laughing again, and it made him feel better to see her smiling. It seemed she had not done that in a long while. However, the new Sansa soon turned serious again.

"Why did you come?" she asked. "Robin told me he got a couple of letters from you, but he threw them away. He said it was something about dead people. Then, the other day, during story time actually, I remembered a man coming to the Red Keep with a dead arm that was all rotted. I have a feeling these two things are connected, brother."

"That would have been Ser Alliser," said Sam. "Do you remember, Jon? The Old Bear sent him down with the arm of a wight."

"Did the King see him?" asked Jon.

"No," Sansa replied. "Joffrey was still alive at the time and he would have had no interest in that sort of thing. Lord Tyrion saw him, but your Black Brother arrived days before the Battle of Blackwater. I doubt Lord Tyrion would have been able to help him, now he is in exile from what I hear. Cersei won't care. Nor Tommen. But speak with Lord Arryn. I know he's simple-minded and weak. But his lords are not. And I will vouch for you. I remember what I saw when Ser Alliser came to the Red Keep." She paused for a moment and met his gaze. "What's happening out there, Jon? What are these dead things?"

He hesitated before answering. Still he had the old Sansa in mind. Not this new Sansa, who took in interest in what was going on in the world.

"Wights," he said. "The Others, the white walkers as Old Nan used to call them. They're real, Sansa. They're marching south and we cannot stop them anymore."

Old Sansa would have cowered and hidden under the blankets. New Sansa nodded her head, in a gesture that was almost sage.

"Well then," she said. "We better get a move on. Raise the Vale, raise the Riverlands and take back the North with Robb. Then we all go North again and see what we can do about these white walkers."

Jon smiled approvingly. "You make it sound simple."

"It is," she said. "The Tyrells are laying siege to Riverrun, I know that much. Margaery is a friend of mine. She will listen, so will her brother, Ser Garlan and her grandmother. Together, we will convince them of the threat beyond the wall."

"And what about Joffrey's murder?" he asked, worriedly. "Don't they blame you?"

Sansa smiled again. "Oh no! Margaery knows who did it and she knows it wasn't me."

Jon couldn't help but feel that Sansa wasn't the only girl who'd had a gutful of Joffrey. But, whoever killed him, he couldn't blame her. Lady Margaery was clearly not to be trifled with.

"It's funny, you know, I was telling Robin the story of the Long Night to get him interested in your work," she recalled, wistfully. "I thought it was just an old story, a legend to scare children. Do you mean to tell me it isn't, that it's happening again?"

"I don't know about a Long Night, sister," he said. "But they're back. It's happening again."

"Very well. Then we will do what we can to help. I'll see to it personally."

"Thank you, Sansa." Jon admired her calmness. But he wondered whether she understood the magnitude of what was coming. All the same, she was strangely reassuring now she was in full possession of herself. He rather liked the new Sansa.

* * *

Robb thought he was alone until he felt Margaery's arms around his waist. At least, he hoped they were Margaery's arms. He turned to doublecheck and smiled as he found her there, tiptoed with her chin resting on his shoulder. For a moment, the two of them looked out over the Tumblestone as the day faded into dusk. Nothing was said. But then, nothing needed to be said. All he needed was her presence and the feel of her arms circling around his waist.

Theon had been a shock and the past had been dredged up all over again. Bran and Rickon, the sack of Winterfell and the loss of the North. He was always aware of it, of course. But now, just as he was getting mobilised again, just as he was beginning to look to the future, the past came crashing through the door and dragged him right back down again.

"My brother feels bad for scolding you," said Margaery. "He didn't mean to."

"No," replied Robb. "If I'd seen someone punch a man who was bound and immobilised, I would have done the same thing. He wasn't to know it was Theon fucking Greyjoy." As an afterthought, he added: "At first, even I didn't know it was Theon Greyjoy."

Margaery kissed his neck. "He's been gelded."

"I did not give permission for Theon to be tortured," he pointed out, flatly. "But I didn't ask too many questions, either. Not at the time."

"Do you feel some guilt?"

Robb was quiet for a moment, as he remembered Bran and Rickon, and all those others lost in the Sack of Winterfell. His answer was barely a whisper. "No."

"All the same, perhaps now is the time to bring an end to him," she suggested. "Take him to the yard and snip him at the neck. No godswood. Just take his head."

Robb turned to face her properly. "You said I needed to learn from my mistakes-"

"He's no good as a hostage, sweetling," she said. "You know what the Ironborn are like. If they're incapable of rape, they're left to die."

Robb tried not to laugh. "He was captured while going into Moat Cailin to convince the Ironborn to surrender to Ramsay Bolton. What if I kept him alive to surrender Moat Cailin to me instead?"

"Moat Cailin is the gateway to the North," she said, a smile spreading across her face. "If you have Moat Cailin, you have the North."

"Unlike Ramsay Bolton, I will keep my promise to the Ironborn. Surrender to me, and they may leave in peace," he said. "If, on the off-chance that Asha Greyjoy cares about what's left of her brother, she'll leave the North and start working with me."

"If she doesn't?" asked Margaery.

"Then I get Moat Cailin back and she can have her brother's bones," he answered.

"You're learning," she praised him, kissing his lips.

"If Theon gets the Ironborn to surrender to me," he continued, "and Asha doesn't want him, I'll execute him before the weirwood. He will pay the price for his betrayal, but he will not be damned in the eyes of our gods."

Margaery nodded. "That's fair. That's more than fair."

Smiling wolfishly, he picked her up and carried her over to the bed. She laughed as he let her fall backwards onto the feather mattress. They would be married soon, and that thought soon pushed Theon from his mind.


	16. Dead, Like Me

"Do you think House Borrell really are related to them squishers?" Pod's expression was earnest as he met Brienne's gaze across the cookfire. The rabbits he was meant to be preparing for their supper lay momentarily abandoned on a flat stone, the bloodied cutting knife still in his hand. "It's the webbed feet that prove it, don't you think?"

Brienne tried not to roll her eyes. She had enjoyed Nimble Dick's stories rather more than she let on. They livened up what could have been a soul crushingly dull journey through Crackclaw Point. But, it seemed, some were taking them a little more seriously than others. "It's just an old folk tale, Pod. Get on with the supper."

She replied more tersely than she intended. She always did and she didn't feel good about it. Pod was a good lad, and true. He didn't look at her with the contempt others had for her. He didn't make sly remarks about her height, her looks or her clumsy, lumbering gait. And, better still, he had stuck by her side through some trying times.

Pod came with her and Nimble Dick and, when they reached the place where Dick said he sold a map to a fool, he stuck with her when that fool turned out to be Shagwell of the Bloody Mummers, along with Pyg and Timeon. He didn't even flee when Dick took a morning star to the face, killing him instantly. Like a faithful dog, Pod stayed at her side.

Brienne sheathed Oathkeeper, deciding that the blade had been polished enough for one evening. "You're doing well, Pod."

He'd resumed skinning and deboning the rabbits and looked up at her startled, as if she had spoken a foreign language.

"Thank you, my lady," he replied, falteringly.

Brienne couldn't say for certain where she had led this poor boy now. She knew they had left the Crownlands and the Vale, without impinging too much on the Riverlands. But they couldn't be far from the spot where all three territories met. If her estimations were correct, then they were somewhere between the Trident and the Mountains of the Moon. An expanse of land so vast it left her with quite an error of margin.

In the Riverlands, Sansa's uncle was holding against a Tyrell siege. In the Vale, her aunt was up in the Eyrie. The only fool she'd managed to track down was Shagwell and Sansa definitely wasn't with him. It had her feel nauseas to think he could have been looking for Lady Stark, too. But which way would she have gone? It was a question that had Brienne in spasms of indecision. If she went one way only to learn she wasn't there, it meant weeks of trekking back the way they came, over to the opposite side of the realm. And what if Sansa wasn't in the Riverlands, either? Westeros was a big place and finding one girl was like searching for a tree in a forest.

"What was that?" Pod quickly snapped from being lost in skewering their supper to being hyper alert. His eyes darted left and right, from the marshlands to their left and the rocky road to their right. "Did you hear that, milady?"

Brienne pressed a finger to her lips, motioning for him to be silent and still. She didn't hear anything, but she wasn't so complacent as to just brush the boy off. Just to be safe, she reached for Oathkeeper and rose to her haunches. Wet footsteps could be heard, the sound of sucking mud, drawing nearer. Months on the roads had taught her that anything could come out of that darkness.

"Squishers," said Pod, wide eyed.

"Don't be silly, Pod."

It was much too late to put out the cookfire now and she began to regret not taking greater cover. But by the time the huge horse appeared from the darkness, she was already on her feet. Still it managed to take her by surprise, for the horse itself was as black as the night and she saw the whites of its rolling eyes before she saw its body. The face of the man mounted on the destrier was contorted by heavy scarring, twisting more as he grinned at them.

"Seven blessings, ser," she said, testily. If he cut up rough, she would answer in like kind. But not a moment before, if she could help it. "We're just about to sup, would you care to join us?"

She prayed he would say no and be on his way. But from the tail of her eye, she could see Pod desperately trying to get her attention. Meanwhile, the newcomer looked from her, to Pod and to the rabbit now sizzling over the cookfire.

"Aye, don't mind if I do," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "Of all the thick cunts I expected to run into out here, you were among the last, Podrick Payne. I'd have thought you'd have your head snipped along with that dwarf."

Pod reddened but kept his silence. His unwillingness to defend himself exasperated Brienne.

"You're welcome to join us, ser-"

"I'm not a knight," the man cut over her, dismounting his horse. "And what might you be doing out on the road this late at night."

By now, Brienne had the story at hand and reeled it off with the same automatic manner as a septa reciting prayers. How knew, perhaps the man had seen Sansa.

"I'm looking for my sister. She's a fair maid of fourteen, with red hair and blue eyes and-"

"And her name's Sansa Stark and she's no more your sister than I am," the man cut her off again, his scarred face twisting into a crooked grin. "Don't horseshit me, woman. The Lannisters sent you and there's only two people they'd send their servants out hunt-"

"I am not their servant," Brienne cut in, her patience snapping.

"But they sent you, didn't they?" he made the question sound like a challenge. Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Pod and started issuing cooking instructions. "Well, you'll be searching with me now. And the only way you'll take that girl back to King's Landing is over my dead body."

Brienne sighed heavily, it would be useless counter-arguing so she didn't bother. Instead, she imagined all the ways she could lose this man somewhere along the road.

* * *

Rusted hinges whined in protest as the double doors were pushed open, revealing a porchway all in darkness. The light from the guard's lantern barely touched another set of locked doors mere feet away. Solid oak and reinforced with iron bands and studs, both barred and locked, Robb waited impatiently for the guard to let him through. Once in, he was greeted by a gust of cold, damp and foetid air blowing straight up from the bowels of Riverrun's dungeons. Dressed only in a thin nightshirt, tucked into breeches he hadn't even laced properly, he shivered against the cold. Not even the beacons and wall torches could touch that deathly cold.

It was damp, as well. Beneath the foundations of Riverrun, a subterranean stream fed into the Tumblestone and it was that stream that seemed to seep into the very brickwork of the dungeons. The walls glistened in the light of the lantern as they passed, the air filled with the musty smell of rising damp.

Braced against the cold and the unpleasant smell, Robb followed the guard down a flight of stone steps. Deeper underground, they reached a long, narrow vault lined with locked cells. All but one was empty, although recent 'guests' had included both Jaime Lannister and Rickard Karstark.

"Where is he?" he asked the guard. The echo of his own voice startled him.

"At the end," replied the guard. "Farthest along, so there's no hope of escape."

The journey walk felt longer than it really was, a feeling exacerbated by the fact that he couldn't see where he was putting his feet. Even with the lantern and one wall torch set at the midway point, the darkness still closed over them.

"Here, my lord."

A third person, a turnkey, suddenly materialised from the darkness and ducked out of sight again before Robb could take a proper look at him. The sound of keys jangling echoed through the dungeons, enough to set his nerves on edge. He could only imagine the effect it had on those unfortunate enough to wind up occupying the cells.

Now that the moment had come, Robb was doubting himself again. Margaery had cautioned him against what he was about to do. The Blackfish had all but forbidden it. Lady Olenna told him it was an exercise in futility, unless he was planning to expedite matters with a swift blow to the back of Theon's head. Even with all that advice fresh in his mind, he'd lain awake in bed, tossing and turning restlessly.

Ever since Theon betrayed him, sacked Winterfell and killed his brothers, he'd been consumed with anger. More than anger, he'd been tormented by a myriad of questions. Why? What for? Did Bran and Rickon suffer? Were they still alive when Theon burned them? When did they die? All these questions and more tormented him on a daily basis. The anger he could live with. It would even dissipate over time. The loss of Winterfell, he could come to terms with. But the unanswered questions would drive him insane.

The answer to those questions lay crumpled in the dirty, stale rushes in a corner of the rear cell. At first, Robb couldn't make Theon out. He seemed to blend perfectly with the dull, grey-brown walls and matted rushes. But the white hair and scuffed boot stuck out against the filth, and Robb discerned the emaciated leg attached to the boot and the rest quickly followed.

The sound of the key in the lock had awoken Theon and now lay sprawled on the ground, one hand shielding his eyes from the light of the lantern as though Robb had walked in there with the sun on a stick. A moment later, he scurried into the far corner of the cell like a startled rat. Speaking of which, the torn carcass of said rodent lay in the rushes. It looked suspiciously like it had been gnawed on. A tenuous foundation of pity began to underpin the layers of contempt that Robb held for this creature.

"I'll leave you to it, my lord," said the guard, placing the lantern on the cell's rickety table. "I'll be with the turnkey beyond. Bang on the cell door when you're ready."

Robb nodded his thanks and entered Theon's cell properly, allowing the door to be closed. Shut in together, Theon cowered in the corner with his arms wrapped protectively around his head. He constantly muttered under his breath, words often indistinguishable. When he could be heard, he repeated over and over that his name was Reek. Silent, Robb watched him, wondering exactly what Ramsay Bolton had done to him. How many others was he doing it to? Who was he torturing now he'd lost Theon? He remembered the ploy to sell little Jeyne Poole to Theon, passing her off as Arya… the possibilities made him feel sick to the stomach.

"You're curling up in that corner as if it's a viable hiding place," Robb stated, flatly. "It really isn't. I can still see you, although I would rather not."

Ever since losing Winterfell, Robb had been alone with his anger and his questions. But now he was here, seeing what he was seeing, and he no longer knew how he felt. He remembered the Theon he grew up with and the Theon in front of him now bore no relation at all to that person. A contrast so stark Robb wondered whether he'd imagined the old Theon. A strange, protracted dream that had somehow led him here.

But there was no denying the facts of what he'd done.

"Why, Theon?" he asked, lowering himself into a chair with uneven legs. The chair, the table and a stone slab bed was the only furniture in the cell and Theon had availed himself of none of it. "Why did you do it?"

"Not Theon," came the reply. "Not Theon-"

"I know it was you," Robb cut in, growing angry.

"Reek!" the prisoner retorted. "Not Theon: Reek."

He still had his arms wrapped around his head, muffling his already weakened voice. Robb fell on him, pulling his arms away by the wrists to expose his face.

"Look at me!" Robb tightened his grip on his prisoner's wrists, making him wince with pain. Past caring, he tightened his grip even more. "We were like brothers. I trusted you when everyone told me not to-"

He broke himself off, got up and composed himself as best he could. It was his fault for trusting Theon, even Margaery was of that opinion. But the betrayal was all Theon. Bran and Rickon, that was all Theon. He turned back to find him sobbing in the corner, that pitiful choking sound he'd made when first brought to Riverrun.

"Do you keep repeating this lie about Reek thinking I'll start to believe it?" he asked, more calmly now. "I know who you are, Theon. I'm not a fool."

"No!" Theon yelped back, as if stung. "No. M-master… M-master made Reek. Theon's dead. Dead like you."

"I'm very much alive, thank you," he replied defensively, as if convincing himself more than Theon.

What if he wasn't? What if they really were both dead? He'd been killed at the Twins and Theon at the Dreadfort. They'd both had everything cut away from them. One metaphorically and the other literally. Robb was at least grateful to be on the metaphorical side. All he knew for sure was that they were both here, both reeling from betrayals and losses beyond counting. In the end, they had taken each other down.

"Did Ramsay do all of this to you?" asked Robb, looking down his nose at Theon.

He nodded. Even that seemed to cause him pain.

"Piece by piece," he murmured and held up his hands.

Every other finger was severed, some at the first knuckle, some beyond that. He really had been hacked away one piece at a time. Most of his teeth had been pulled as well, Robb noticed that when he first got there. Then Theon rose to his feet, standing stoop-backed as he began to unlace his breeches. Realising what he was doing, Robb tried to stop him but it was too late. But, of course, there was nothing to see. Just an ugly, twisting scar that made Robb's stomach roil. He turned away quickly, instantly trying to forget what he had seen.

"Seven hells, will you cover up," he snapped.

The rustle of fabric informed him the show and tell was over, it was safe to look back. At least Theon was still on his feet and looking at him now.

"So, Ramsay cut you away and rebuilt you as Reek?" he asked, trying to get to grips with something so grotesque.

When Theon replied, he spoke in a voice barely above a whisper. "I wanted to be a Stark. I wanted to be you."

Robb stifled a laugh. "I don't think Ramsay was ever going to cut Theon away and rebuild him in the image of Robb Stark."

"You asked why I did it," Theon reminded him. "That's why. Now Theon is dead and I am Reek."

"It's a shame you didn't want my brothers," Robb said, curtly. "Why did you kill them, Theon? Rickon was a baby and Bran was a cripple. What threat were they to you?"

Now they were back on his mind, the anger returned. But he needed the answer, even if he didn't like it. Theon cringed away again, the choking noises coming from somewhere at the back of his throat. But Robb wouldn't let it go.

"Why?" he demanded, his voice echoing around the cell.

The noise made Theon flinch. But even when he seemed to recover himself, he remained silent. His brow furrowed, displaying scar tissue lining his forehead. Ramsay really had left no part of him unflayed. His moth flapped open, displaying gaps between yellowed teeth where other teeth once were, but no words seemed to form.

"I-I'm sorry," he whimpered. "M-master-"

Robb's temper snapped. "I'm not your fucking master, Theon. What's wrong with you?"

He caught the prisoner before he could shrink back into the corner and curl up like a hedgehog again. Robb wasn't standing for it, no matter what Ramsay had done to him.

"Master!" he repeated, panic-stricken. "Master will punish me!"

Normally Robb would have been mystified, with Theon he was just furious. "Do you mean Ramsay? He's not fucking here, Theon. Do you think I'm working with him? Do you think I've let him take Winterfell from me just as a trap for you? He betrayed me and soon I am marching North to kill him."

Theon was trembling violently, eyes wide with alarm. "No! No, you mustn't. Ramsay will catch you, he'll get you. He'll destroy you like he did me. You must stay here-"

"And leave my people in the hands of that monster?" Robb laughed bitterly as he added. "And I never knew you cared so much, Theon!"

"Please!" Theon pleaded, falling to his knees in the rushes at Robb's feet. His hands were clasped together in a manner of prayer. "If you go North now, he will catch you and flay your army-"

"Enough!" Robb shouted over him, pushing him away so hard he fell backwards in the rushes. "What I do is my concern and none of yours."

Theon retreated back into his corner, but Robb was past caring. It wasn't as if the poor wretch was hiding, there was nowhere for him to go. No difference was made. All the same, the incessant cringing and whimpering was getting on his nerves. Then, finally, Theon spoke.

"Not dead," he blurted out. A second passed, before he repeated himself slowly. "They're not dead. Bran and Rickon."

Robb had been standing with his back to Theon, and now slowly looked over his shoulder. Theon was scratching at his skin, tormenting himself as if he'd betrayed a confidence. Resting on his haunches, he rocked back and forth, struggling to keep himself together.

"What did you say?"

He drew a few deep breaths before continuing: "Bran and Rickon escaped. Osha, the wildling girl, helped them. She cut a guard's throat and stole them away. I took the dogs out hunting them, but couldn't get a scent. We lost them at the river. Ramsay came, pretending to help, and he said I should take two other boys of an age with Bran and Rickon and … and … and…"

He stammered off into silence, struggling to articulate the two innocent children he had slain and burned.

"And what?" Robb snapped at him.

"And I burned them and hanged them from the walls of Winterfell," Theon blurted out, breaking down in tears. "They were the miller's sons. But Bran and Rickon are alive."

Stunned into silence, Robb found himself at a strange sort of a crossroads. He wanted to believe his brothers were alive. Of course he did. But could he believe it when the news came from the lips of Theon Greyjoy. He had trusted him once, and never would again.

"Do you think telling me this will save your life?" he asked.

Theon looked up at him again, straight faced and dead in the eye. "The only hope I have left is death."

Robb smiled crookedly. "Do you think death will be the end of your suffering, Theon Greyjoy? There's a special place in the seven hells for people who murder innocent children. For people like you."

He didn't know if he even believed in any gods anymore. Old, new, fire gods, drowned gods … none had exactly been of much help to him, recently. But he wanted to see the look on this wretch's face at the prospect of torments to come.

Theon didn't look in the least bit bothered. "I know. I think I've already been there."

Whether or not Theon was telling the truth had Robb in a quagmire of agonised indecision. A dying man would say anything to save himself. But Theon welcomed death and Robb could well see why. However, he lied all the time. The years at Winterfell, where Robb thought of him as a brother, were all a lie. And this, Bran and Rickon alive, would be the cruellest lie of all. If Robb opened himself up to that hope only to have it dashed … it didn't bear thinking about.

"Is it true?" he asked, looking Theon in the eye. "Are they alive?"

Theon nodded. "I'll swear before the heart tree. Bran and Rickon escaped."

Robb knew he could ask and ask, but he could never bring himself to fully trust what Theon said. But he had said it, and the seed of doubt was planted. And there was no denying how badly he wanted it to be true. It would be the sweetest thing of all, if Bran and Rickon were still out there, just waiting for him to take back Winterfell. Just waiting to come home.

"I don't know whether I can believe you or not," he said, at length. "But one thing is true, Theon. Before you betrayed me, I thought of you as my brother in all but blood. A Stark in all but name."

With that, he could bear no more. He banged on the cell door, the noise echoing down the long chamber beyond. The remains of the dead rat were beside his boot. "I'll leave you to the rest of your supper, Greyjoy."

Once back in the castle proper, he could see the beginnings of dawn penetrating the darkness of night. A new morning, a new day. Feeling dirty from his time in the dungeons, in the company of the Turncloak, he made his way to the baths on the ground floor and soaked in the hot water. All the time he thought of his brothers and the children Theon says were burned in their place. The Miller's sons. Theon was fucking the Miller's wife, he recalled. He had been for years. A kinslayer as well as a turncloak? Possibly. He'd certainly suffered the fate of both.

Several hours later, still without sleep, he found Margaery waiting for him in the common hall. She greeted him with a smile that lit up her whole face. He didn't realise how much he needed to see her until she was right in front of him.

"Look what arrived by messenger, this morning?"

She held up an old, faded green samite cloak emblazoned with a golden rose. The Tyrell wedding cloak. The Stark wedding cloak was in the closest upstairs, in his chambers. Finally, it was time.

* * *

That morning, Sansa had entered Sweet Robin's chambers with his breakfast tray, finding the boy sitting up in bed and inspected a huge sword. His little face had been alight with awe as he turned it over, carefully avoiding the sharp edges as Jon instructed. Her brother was sat beside the bed in the chair she normally occupied, she came to a rest at his side.

"Look, Alayne!" said Sweet Robin. "It's the sword of heroes, just like you said."

She and Jon exchanged a knowing look.

"See, what did I tell you? That blade has been passed from one Lord Commander down to the other, from the Age of Heroes to this very day. But, perhaps you should hand it back for now? Here's your tray."

Luckily, the prospect of food had him handing over the sword without throwing a tantrum. Something that had Jon sighing with relief just as much as her. However, he needn't have been worried about his sword. Sweet Robin wouldn't have been able to tell the difference between it and a toothpick. But, as she leaned down to place the tray on Robin's lap, she got a better look at it. It actually was Valyrian steel. She could see the patterns and ripples that ran the length of the heavily tempered blade. It really was rather beautiful.

"I'm going to need your help packing my strongbox today, Alayne," the boy said.

Sansa had tried to tell him that her name wasn't Alayne and that he ought to call her Sansa. But, apparently, he liked Alayne and he didn't even know Sansa Stark. It had worried her, at first. As if this disconnect would cost her the alliance. But she soon realised it was just one of her little cousin's quirks. He knew they were the same person, but he'd just gotten used to Alayne and he never did like change.

For now, she was curious about the trip he wanted to take.

"So, where are we going, my lord?" she asked. "To the Bloody Gate?"

Sweet Robin smiled and laughed lightly. "No. No. I'm calling my banners, Alayne. Then we're marching North to take back your home from the Boltons, then we're going North again to fight the white walkers, just like you said. It's my turn to be a hero now."

Sansa was weak-kneed with relief and swept her little cousin into a hug. A hug he returned gratefully. Words could not express her gratitude. Sure, he was difficult. Now he was a lifesaver.

"I think we ought to go to Riverrun first though," she said. "There's someone we need to pick up and bring with us."

As always, the finer details didn't concern him. He'd made the grand gesture and that was what made him smile. "Talk about it to Lord Royce. If he tries to say no, tell him I'll throw him through the moon door."

Sansa laughed as if it were a joke, but there was no way she would do any such thing.

"So, when do we leave?" asked Jon. "The sooner the better, I think. Time is running out before the Great Other reaches the wall."

Sansa sincerely hoped he was dramatizing for Sweet Robin's sake. By the half-smile on his face, she guessed he was.

"We can set out at first light tomorrow and the others will follow us," said Robin, looking up at Sansa for approval. She smiled and nodded at him. "Yes, tomorrow it is. We will ride out ahead of the army, so I can lead them, can't I?"

"Of course," replied Sansa. "A Lord must always lead his army. Only your brave standard bearers will ride before you."

He looked ecstatic at the notion. So much so, he lost interest in his breakfast and wanted to get up and dressed right now. To Sansa's delight, he was a little lordling on a mission. A mission she, Jon and Robb would be all too happy to direct from the backseats. She drew a deep breath as it all came together.

Then Baelish could be delivered to Brynden Tully and finally be made to pay for his crimes. For Baelish was the sole remaining plot on Sansa's plans. He couldn't be allowed to find out that Robb lived, although word had spread among certain Vale Lords. And if he did find out, he would have to be kept under lock and key to stop him slinking back off to Cersei. It was times like these that Sansa remembered she wasn't as in control as she thought she was.


	17. Wars and Weddings

Mesmerised, Jon watched the falcon gliding silently overhead. Carried on the current, miles above the mountaintops, its keen eyes scanned the rugged terrain. In the years that had passed since he last dabbled in falconry, he'd forgotten how those birds could spot a mouse from ten miles up. The bird dived abruptly and he whistled it home, a thin wavering note that carried on the thin mountain air. When it returned to him, it came with a bloodied mountain clamped between its beak.

Pleased with the catch, Jon took the hare and tied it to his saddle pack for that evening's supper. Meanwhile, Sansa's bird continued to soar and she herself seemed to be in a world of her own. She was sat by the side of the mountain track, her back against a fallen rock and her eyes closed. Reluctant to disturb her since she'd been up since the crack of dawn with Sweet Robin, he stepped around her quietly. At least, he thought he did before she awoke with a start.

"The path ahead is clear, but thick with snow," she declared, getting to her feet. "If we keep going, we could be at the Bloody Gate by evenfall. Delay much longer and we'll be snowed in all winter."

Jon felt his brow tighten into an automatic frown. He went to say something, but thought better of it and by the time he changed his mind again, she was already back on her mule. Mya Stone was waiting nearby, ready to begin the final leg of the descent down to the Bloody Gate.

"How far away are the others?" he asked, brushing aside his concerns.

"Not far," she assured them. "About a mile back. Do you want to wait for Sam and Gilly?"

"No, but I thought we might speak privately," he suggested.

Sansa smiled. "Of course. Better out here than back at the Eyrie. At least the rocks aren't spying for Petyr."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Jon laughed. "But what is it with Lord Baelish? Why did you save him?"

"I have enough on Petyr Baelish to have him thrown out of the moon door then scraped off the rocks and thrown through the moon door again," she replied, keeping her voice down. "All the same, it's just not that simple."

"But what's stopping you?" he persisted. "You say he can't be trusted to know the truth about Robb, yet we're taking him to Riverrun with us."

"Petyr saved my life," Sansa answered. "He saved my life twice. Once when he got me out of King's Landing before I could be arrested for killing Joffrey. The second time when my Aunt Lysa tried to throw me through the moon door."

Jon's heart thumped in shock. He knew Lysa had died and now his mind was racing as he imagined the worst. "I think you need to explain that last one from the beginning, sister."

They were on the road again, following Mya as she forged ahead with the pack mules. Meanwhile, Sansa was looking flushed in the face but Jon put it down to the brisk winds skirling up the stony passes.

"Petyr kissed me, Lysa saw it and went half-mad with rage," she said, blushing deeper. "I never asked him to kiss me, Jon. He just did it-"

"I believe you," he assured her. "He took advantage, Sansa. He's been taking advantage, by the sounds of it, since the moment you first crossed his path. So, how did he save your life? Was Lysa even being serious? I cannot imagine she would harm her beloved sister's eldest daughter."

"Lysa and my mother loathed each other!" Sansa retorted.

"Really?"

"Well, Lysa hated my mother. But she was serious, Jon. She tried to throw me out of the moon door, my legs were hanging over the edge and I had to hold on to a pillar to stop myself going over the edge. It was awful. But Petyr talked her down and … and…" Sansa faltered, turning away from him as if she could no longer meet his eye.

Jon realised the chilling truth. "He pushed her through the moon door." He didn't need Sansa to confirm it. "I'll grant you, Petyr saved your life. But it's funny how this act of valour also benefitted him. He got the Vale and he still got to keep his key to the North."

"I know, but there were things Lysa told me before she was killed," she continued, making sure Mya was still out of earshot. "She killed Jon Arryn on Petyr's orders and they worked together to bring about the War of the Five Kings. It was Lysa who wrote to my mother stating that the Lannisters killed Lord Arryn and it was Tyrion mother blamed for trying to kill Bran – because of that letter."

Despite the thick cloak he wore, the winds now seemed to cut right through him to the bone. He shivered in the saddle. "The more you tell me about Baelish the more I think you might have been better off with Joffrey."

"Don't say that. Joffrey was a monster, he killed our father."

"I didn't mean to be flippant." Jon sighed heavily. "The thing is, Lysa sounds like she might have been a little … unstable, shall we say. Is what she told you the truth? Can you prove it?"

"And that's it," she said, pitifully. "It will be my word against Petyr's and someone's already been imprisoned for Lysa's death. I went along with it because I was so pathetically grateful to Petyr and scared out of my wits that the Lords of the Vale would have me sent back to King's Landing. If I can just get Petyr back to Riverrun, Robb and Uncle Brynden will understand, won't they? They'll believe me over him and they've suffered the most at his hands."

"Lord Arryn is fond of you too," he pointed out.

"He thinks Petyr is his beloved Uncle," she countered. "And you've seen him, Jon. You never know what he's going to do or how he's going to react. He'll be hugging me one minute and smacking me around the head the next. I can't move against Petyr unless I know it's going to work. The risk is too great."

Reluctantly, Jon ceded the point. Lord Arryn had awoken that morning and instantly worked himself up into such a frenzy, Maester Coleman had had to fall on him with dreamwine – the catch all remedy for all the boy's many mysterious ailments. As for his behaviour, he wondered how Sansa had the patience to deal with it. All the same, her touch and the sound of her voice seemed to soothe the boy.

"I can't believe Robb left you with these people," he grumbled, genuinely disappointed in his brother. "Then, I suppose he didn't have much choice. It's not like he could have walked into the Red Keep and just asked for you back."

He had never got on with Lady Stark. But now he was thanking his lucky stars his father was never betrothed to her sister. He would have been feeding the wolves the same night he was brought back to Winterfell.

True to Sansa's earlier prediction, they reached the Bloody Gate by evenfall. Lord Arryn had stabilised, but went straight up to bed. While Sansa was reading to him, Jon joined Sam and Gilly for supper – stew made from the hares the birds had hunted for them. While there, he was greeted by the Redforts and Waynwoods, both of whom had been campaigning to join Robb's cause prior to the wedding.

When Sansa did return, his thoughts had turned to the Tyrells. When it had just been himself and Sam, their plan had been a simple one. Sam would speak to Ser Garlan and convince him to let Jon into Riverrun. He was, after all, just one person. Now, however, they were turning up at Riverrun with an entire army of thousands of armoured knights at their backs.

Sansa seemed unconcerned.

"The Vale are a neutral force and the Tyrells just want to go home. We send in some Vale knights – and you – to parley with the Blackfish. Bring Robb with you when you leave. The Tyrells won't know who he is, so just walk him out past the siege lines."

Jon remained sceptical. "That's if the Tyrells haven't worked out who he is."

Sansa shrugged before making a start on her stew. "Why would they? None of them have ever met him and surely Robb wasn't fool enough to introduce himself."

"True," he agreed. "Not even our Robb could make that mistake."

* * *

"Gods, it's cold!" Robb stamped his feet in some paltry effort to keep the feeling in his toes. The Stark words were proving true: winter was coming.

Margaery, however, counted herself lucky. It had stopped raining for more than a day now. She wasn't so naïve as to think it would hold off until after the wedding, but that was being held indoors anyway. The celebrations were to be lowkey, with just the Tyrells and the Blackfish and his bannermen in the common hall. No public announcements were to be made in the name of secrecy and no one beyond their immediate surviving families could even know about it. All the same, her nerves were tingling already.

The supply carts were already coming up the King's Road from the Reach, untroubled by Lannister forces still patrolling the borderlands that separated their lands. But Cersei had remained silent since her bloodless coup against House Tyrell. So silent, that Margaery wondered what in seven hells she was playing at.

In the meantime, they had food, grain to make bread, fabric for the dresses and fresh fruits for the sweet courses of the wedding feast. Despite all that, there was just one final, rather last minute, alteration Margaery wanted to suggest and she was leading Robb there now.

Out in the cold, they made their way across the yard and to an area of the castle grounds not many seemed to venture into. It was closed off from the main thoroughfare by a gate, leading into a wide area of several acres. Populated by redwoods and tall elms, the godswood was light and airy, with birds still singing in the trees and wild flowers growing in thick clumps around the bases of the trunks.

"You want to marry in the godswood?" he asked as they approached the weirwood tree.

"Why not?" she countered. "Your mother and father married here, didn't they?"

She thought it boded well for them to marry in the same place as the revered Eddard and Lady Catelyn. But Robb soon put her right.

"They married at Riverrun right enough. But in the sept, according to my mother's faith."

"No, it should be done here, I think," she insisted. If she wanted to be accepted by the people she meant to rule, she had to adopt their customs. It was a basic lesson in winning hearts and minds. Besides, she felt the seven had rather overlooked them both of late. Approaching the heart tree, she traced the lines of the downturned mouth. Just like the one in Highgarden, that carved face with the sap-weeping eyes watched over the sacred space with great solemnity, even though its surroundings were really quite beautiful. "Why do they always look so sad?"

If anything, the surrounding flowers and chirruping birds only emphasised the grimness of the tree's face. Robb, however, smiled as he bid her sit with him beneath its ruby boughs.

"I don't think the Children carved those faces to cheer the place up," he laughed. "There was a war with the First Men, who cut down the sacred trees and slaughtered the children. If you go west of here, you'll reach High Heart, where the ring of weirwoods were hacked down and used as stumps to slaughter the Children by the thousand. When the pact of peace was signed at the Isle of Faces, the First Men agreed to leave the remaining weirwoods in tact and the Children carved the faces in the trees so they could watch over the First Men and make sure they upheld their end of the bargain. And now, here they stand."

Thousands and thousands of years had passed between then and now, but the sap caught the light and just for a moment the face looked half alive.

"Are they watching us now?" she asked, looking the tree dead in the eye.

Robb had his back to it, resting nonchalantly against the bark. "This doesn't feel like a proper godswood. It shouldn't be all pretty and light, like this. In the south, you turned them into pleasure gardens." He paused, gesturing toward the wildflowers and looking to the treetops where the birds continued to sing. "In Winterfell, it's a dark place with a deep pool, as ancient as the land itself. No birds sing there, nor thickets of wildflowers growing. It's just the trees, the pines and sentinels and ironwoods. And the heart tree in the middle. It's not a pleasure garden, like this. It's a place where the old gods still live."

She knew the old gods had all but vanished from the south. A few houses still worshipped the old way, but they were a minority within a minority. She herself hadn't really given them much thought. The godswood was just a place that existed within Highgarden, a pleasant little acreage where one could while away a warm afternoon with friends, taking shelter from the summer sun beneath the broad ruby boughs. She began to appreciate that there was more to them than that.

"Is this one not suitable to wed in?" she asked. "If I am to help you rule the North, I think it only fitting we join in a union acceptable to your people."

Robb sat up sharply, serious now. "Of course we can wed here, but it's not essential. The Northern Lords will accept you all the same, no matter if you wed in a sept dressed in a roughspun sack."

Margaery smiled. "Well then, that settles it. We are to have a wedding pleasing to the Old Gods of the North."

She hated to admit it to herself, but it felt right on an almost superstitious level. As if marrying here would somehow bring good fortune in the Northern wars to come. She might as well be carrying around rabbit's feet and charms bought from wise-women of the woods for the all the good it would really do. But she was powerless to rein in the superstitions now she had succumbed once. Besides, she thought it really would please the Northern Lords and smallfolk whose culture was centred around the Old Gods.

"We're looking for your brother," she said. "The scouts on the north roads have seen nothing, unsurprisingly."

"I doubt he'll come from that direction," Robb explained. "He wouldn't make it past Winterfell, never mind Moat Cailin. The far more sensible route would be for him to sail from Eastwatch down to Gulltown. The Hound went that way. Is there any news of him?"

"None," she admitted. "A few of our scouts followed him, more tried to track him. But he's evaded us all. Do you think we've seen the last of him?"

Even the Brotherhood Without Banners hadn't found Sandor Clegane, but Lem thought he might have spotted him heading toward into the Vale of Arryn at some point. The Brotherhood never left the Riverlands, so there the trial went cold and the Hound slipped the leash that had been slowly closing over him.

"Arya says he won't give up on Sansa," said Robb, doubt clouding his expression. "I don't know what to make of that, myself. But I'm certain we've not seen the last of him."

"Well, we can't wait for them forever," she said. "I know it's hard leaving without them. But we need to get the wedding done and then we need to head north."

"No, I understand. Jon, I think, will know how to find me. But if Sansa turns up here and she's been on her own all this time … I dread to think what might happen."

Riverrun would be left garrisoned, but the Blackfish would be coming North with them. They could leave instructions to shelter any red-haired maid of about fourteen who looks like she might be Lady Catelyn's daughter, but the risk was too great.

"Maybe we could leave Arya here?" Margaery suggested. "I know you'd rather she stayed with us, but she would recognise Jon and Arya."

"I don't know," he replied. "I would not leave Arya and risk her life should this castle be taken while we're away. I say she comes with us."

"Theon, then," she suggested. "He won't be needed until we reach Moat Cailin and if Sansa shows up here, he can be brought out of his cell to identify her."

Robb perked up a little. "Yes, I suppose he still has his uses after all."

She knew about the talk they'd had, late at night in the dungeons. She knew Bran and Rickon were supposedly alive somewhere. Although she had been quick to temper his expectations, she still found herself wondering about the truth of the matter. It was as he sought solace after learning of their deaths that Robb had broken his marriage pact with Walder Frey's daughter. It was that which had led to the Bolton betrayal and the red wedding. Whether Bran and Rickon were alive or dead, whether or not Theon delivered Moat Cailin back to House Stark, Margaery could only think it wise that he should die for what he did and now she was worried the Ironborn turn-cloak was starting to weasel his way back into Robb's affections.

"You know you can never forgive him, right?" she asked. "Even if he shelters your sisters in towers of ivory, it won't change the fact you're in this mess to start with because of him."

"I'm not a lackwit," he assured her. One of the castle greyhounds that he'd become uncommonly attached to appeared from between a thicket of trees, sniffing at the wildflowers expectantly. "Theon will die soon, anyway. His sister won't want him back."

"And if she does?"

"I promised she could take him, so long as he gives up Moat Cailin," he said, clicking his fingers at the greyhound. It came bounding over to them, greeting Robb with a lick of the face. "Do you think I should have put another caveat in: so long as we get to use their fleet to liberate Deepwood Motte?"

"It might be an idea," she suggested. "In the meantime, we should start the raids on Frey lands. My brothers' men are getting bored being cooped up here."

"They're approaching already. I've seen them myself."

"The Freys? How?"

He rubbed at the dog's ears. "I've seen them, that's all. I have eyes in the strangest of places."

Robb's expression closed and he carried on playing with the dog, now letting it worry his forearm with its teeth. But the dog didn't get rough. She couldn't escape the feeling there was something Robb wasn't telling her. Meanwhile, evening was closing in on them and the temperature was close to freezing. If they were to marry here, in the godswood, they would need beacons for a little warmth along the way.

Once they were up again, Robb paused by the gate leading out of the godswood and looked back over his shoulder. He had the look of a man who had made up his mind.

"You're right," he declared, smiling crookedly back at the heart tree. "We need to marry here, not in the sept."

Relieved, she kissed his cheek and leaned down to give the greyhound's ears a scratch. On the way out, they brought the dog to the gates of the castle and let him out, so he could run free during the night. Only then did they join everyone else inside.

"Why do you throw that poor dog out every night?" she asked. "I thought you were friends."

"We are!" Robb laughed. "But I need him out there a lot more than I need him in here."

Leaving it at that, she let him lead her back into the hall where battles were planned alongside the upcoming wedding. Wars and weddings: the two often went hand in hand. Next to the place where Margaery's wedding dress was taking shape, a map showed all the places where the Tyrell army had already engaged gangs of Frey retainers as they tried to work their way south. The line of Robb's gaze followed the line of the river, all the way to where the Twins straddled the Green Fork with their vast bridge.

"I wonder what it would be like to tear that thing down," he said, pointing to the bridge.

"A fine sight, I would imagine," she replied. "Finer than all the lace in Myr, I wouldn't wonder."

* * *

Finally back at sea level, Sansa drew a deep breath and took a long look around her. The terrain was still rough. Loose soil in which little grew, clogged up with even looser stones that could break an ankle if one trod carelessly enough. But it was flat, if a little featureless with it. To the west lay Harrenhal and then Riverrun, so close now her nerves squirmed whenever she thought about it. Even now, with the Knights of the Vale at her back, she still expected something to go wrong, something to screw up her plans and set her back to square one.

So, she spent most of her days trying not to think about it. She rode with Sam, Gilly and Jon, following the outriders as they made their way steadily westwards. They chatted lightly among themselves as they passed through villages and small towns. When she looked back, as she did that day, she could see the endless procession of armoured men following them at a distance and still couldn't quite believe she had actually raised the Vale.

"Why does that boy keep calling you Alayne?" Jon wondered aloud. "How many times has he been told what happened now?"

There was little love between her brother and Sweet Robin, she could see that much.

"Because he's rather simple," she pointed out. "And you can point it out until the mountains fall into the sea, if you like. It will make no difference."

She found it funny, even if no one else did.

Come the evening, they dined in inns and taverns and stayed the night if they had lodgings going. Then, come dawn, onwards they trekked over the endless, bumpy terrain of the lowland Vale. As they went, Jon and Sam talked of the lands beyond the wall and the things that lay in wait out there. Armies of the dead, reanimated by white walkers.

All her life, she had been told the wall was the biggest structure known to man and that the Night's Watch was the knighthood of the North. Now the wall seemed small and the watch little more than tin soldiers, to be crumpled at the ease of harsher gods than she'd ever known.

"And what about Daenerys Targaryen?" asked Sam. "You heard what those sailors in Braavos said about her and her dragons."

"Did you hear anything about her, Sansa?" asked Jon, drawing level with her.

"We heard rumours about dragons," she recalled. "But nothing definite. Is it true then? Are there really dragons in Essos?"

They'd been dead for almost two hundred years, everyone knew that. The Targaryens had driven themselves mad in their attempts to hatch them, resulting only in bloodshed, misery and the ongoing extinction of the dragons themselves.

"If she really is the Prince who was Promised, then we need her," Sam continued. "Maester Aemon was convinced of it and he was no fool to go believing in prophecies."

Sansa looked to Jon, to see what he made of all this. But his expression was solemn and closed.

"Aemon was old," said Jon, at length. "His wits were wandering, Sam. You heard him talking to his brother. We cannot set too much store by his talk of light bringers and dragons and promised princesses." He paused for a heavy sigh. "Gods, we could use a full-grown dragon for the undead, though. I'll not deny that."

Sansa had been taught many a sharp lesson in statecraft since leaving King's Landing. But she knew nothing of the supernatural or the paranormal. And this great unknown made her blood run cold. An enemy that couldn't be charmed and bargained with. An enemy that seemed indestructible.

Not long after their discussion, they hobbled their horses for the night in an open camp. There wasn't a tavern or inn to be seen for miles, but they had caught some rabbits and game using their falcons. Despite the lack of creature comforts, it was a cosy atmosphere around their little cookfire. The smell of roasting meat filled the air and the flames kept the harsh cold at bay. Unless she was mistaken, it would begin snowing again soon. Still, she did not let that put her off.

They laughed and chatted and joked among themselves. Stories were told and Gilly taught her some folklore from beyond the wall, oral stories the free folk passed down among themselves. Wildlings had been spoken of with fear, where Sansa grew up. But she liked Gilly and baby Sam. In that tight little group, not so very far from the main army camp, Sansa didn't think anyone could get them. No until Jon rose to find somewhere to make water and a voice boomed from the darkness.

"Stay where you are!"

Their chatter ceased immediately and Sansa whipped around toward the source of the noise. As she did so, a figure emerged from the darkness beyond the light of the fire. Without missing a beat, Jon drew his sword, Dark Sister, the Valyrian blade glinting in the light of the fire. Sam had positioned himself in front of Gilly, to shield her and the baby, while Sansa stayed behind Jon. She had no weapon of her own and, even if she did, she wouldn't have known how to use it. All the same, she wished she had something. Anything.

The attacker pulled off their helm to reveal … a woman. She was huge, with blonde hair and startlingly blue eyes.

"The girl," she said, pointing to Sansa. "Lady Stark, I only want to speak with you a moment."

Then an equally large man appeared at her side. One side of his face burned badly. Recognition hit home in an instant, almost knocking Sansa off her feet.

"That's her brother, you dumb bitch. I could have told you that, if only you'd listen-"

"Shut up, Clegane."

"I think you should listen, milady."

The bizarre situation grew stranger still as Podrick Payne stepped nervously into the light of the fire. He was still bright red in the face.

Jon was glowering at them all. "You know these people?"

"Sandor," she said, feeling much more emotional than she knew she ought to. She took a moment to gather herself properly. "Jon, you remember Sandor from Winterfell, don't you?"

He sheathed his sword, at least. Emboldened by the gesture of peace, Sandor stepped closer with a twisted smile on his face. "You've slipped the cage at last then, little bird?"


	18. The Wedding Present

"How quickly you forget everything I've done for you!" Petyr's grip tightened on Sansa's arm, spinning her around forcefully so they were standing face to face. The moonlight drained the colour from him, making him look pale and older than his years. "All of this was for you. All of it."

She opened her mouth to call for help but, at the last minute, she thought better of it. This was a battle she needed to win herself. Drawing herself to full height, she looked him in the eye. "To what ends you started a war I know not. But I doubt it was for my benefit, or anyone else's but your own."

Wrenching her arm from his grip was easier than she estimated it to be, so much so she almost overbalanced herself. He tried to grab her back, but his fingers closed over only the air. Petyr had little by way of physical strength, she realised. He was only a small man. She just hadn't realised how small, until now. Their conversation seemed to be over, so she turned her back on him and kept on walking. She only left camp because she needed to make water, only she didn't want to let on to Petyr. He'd probably want to watch.

"Where are you going? It's not safe, my lady," he called after her. "The Lannisters … the Freys…"

He was right, but they had long passed the Trident and were now skirting along the Red Fork. Wolves howled in the nearby woods and Sansa had no fear of them. As for Lannisters and Freys, their scouts and outriders had seen them off almost effortlessly.

"I'll be back in a minute," she assured him, disappearing into the trees. "And don't follow me."

The land sloped downwards to a narrow stream, with trees providing good cover. While keen to be well out of Petyr's sight, and not to mention the thousands of armoured knights accompanying them, she wasn't so foolish as to go too far in the dark woods. She relieved herself quickly and hurried back to the path.

"Had you listened to me, I could have delivered you the Vale and the North."

Sansa stifled a cry of alarm as Petyr materialised from between two trees. It seemed he had followed her into the woods after all, the snow cushioning his footfalls so she didn't even hear him. It had been snowing for days now.

"I have little interest in the Vale, Petyr," she hissed, growing irritable. "One day, my cousin will marry a fine young lady, but it was never going to be me."

"No, it was never going to be you," he agreed, brushing a strand of hair from her face. It was an act much too intimate for her liking. "I'm not just talking about the Vale. I could have delivered the realm to you, if only you had stayed with me. You know why. You know how I feel about you."

"Petyr, this has to stop," she replied, firmly.

Sansa tried to push past him, only he second guessed her and blocked her escape. His hands were on her again, gripping her shoulders so she couldn't move but for giving him a shove in the chest. Undeterred, Petyr rebounded like a small, yappy dog.

"I had it all worked out for you and I. If you had listened, if you had trusted me- "

"Trust you!" she retorted, her laughter echoing through the woods. "You and Lysa manufactured a war, Petyr. A war that killed members of my family. And you ask me to trust you?"

She would have been interested to hear his reply, only it was cut off by a low and ominous growling coming from the nearby undergrowth. Petyr heard it too, his body tensing and falling silent.

"We need to leave, my lady."

"Why?" she asked, pretending she had not heard the growl nor seen the yellow eyes flashing nearby. "What are you afraid of, Petyr? Wolves?"

She felt the beast brushing up against her and hardly a wonder, it was the size of a small horse. The half-light of the woods by night only served to make it more sinister, with only the outline silver limned silhouette visible to the eye. It stalked around her slowly, baring its teeth at Petyr who backed away slowly until he hit a tree. All the time, the low growl wavered and lowered in pitch, carrying in the still night air.

Sansa knew she ought to have been afraid too. But she knew this one, Sansa knew her well. So well, she dared place a hand on the wolf's head, letting her fingers rest in the soft fur between her ears. Ears that were still flat against her head as she threatened Baelish. Baelish watched what Sansa did, pressed flat against the tree, a look of abject horror in his face. A trickle of sweat rolled slowly down his temple.

"Sansa," he said, almost pleadingly, his gaze darting from the direwolf to Sansa and back again. "Sansa, please."

Nymeria has positioned herself between them, fur bristling and ready to attack. She seemed wild now.

"Just go, Petyr," she said, her hand still on the wolf's head. "Leave. Now."

He hesitated, eyes still on the wolf as if he suspected she would attack the moment his back was turned. After a second or two, he took his chances and ran for the safety of open ground and Nymeria settled almost instantly.

"Nymeria," she said, kneeling in front of the wolf. "Nymeria, come with me. Arya's waiting for you. Come with me."

It wasn't as if she would get an answer, so she got to her feet and motioned for the wolf to follow. She did, but only as far as the road back to camp. Petyr was talking to two of the nigh guards, undoubtedly instructing them to hunt some wolf flesh. Their swords were glinting in the moonlight, until she motioned for them to stay where they were. When she looked back to make sure Nymeria hadn't been spooked, she had already vanished back into the trees.

* * *

Resistance was futile, but Robb tried all the same and rolled over in bed, hoping it would somehow shake Arya off. But, as on so many occasions before, the pillow was wrenched from under him and then used to give him a good whack over the head. He should be used to it by now, but it always came as a shock. Especially when the blow was delivered while he was still in that hinterland between sleep and wakefulness.

"Wake up, you stupid!" said Arya, indecently loud.

"You're awful," he moaned, voice muffled by the feather bed he was now face-down on.

"I had a wolf-dream and Sansa was in it," she said. "So wake up, stupid."

"What?" he was awake now and sitting up, careful to keep himself covered so his little sister didn't get an eyeful. "You saw her?"

"That's what I said," Arya replied, climbing up next to him. "She was close, but I don't know where. She was by a river, in some woods. There was definitely a river."

"We're in the Riverlands, Arya," he pointed out, wryly.

His impudence earned him a punch in the arm. "I know that. I'm trying. But I don't know what one. Not the Trident, not the Tumblestone. I think it might have been the Red Fork or that river that runs south. Not the Blackwater Rush though, Nymeria's nowhere near there."

Robb thought about it for a while. If Sansa was coming up from the south after fleeing King's Landing, she would more than likely be passing Pink Maiden. Pink Maiden had a large river flowing through it. But Sansa fled so long ago, he would be amazed if she was still south. Had she tried to get back to Winterfell, not realising it had fallen to the Boltons? Cersei probably wasn't telling her anything while she was a prisoner. Sansa could well have not known. But what Arya said next made that seem highly unlikely.

"I think she was with Littlefinger, that man who worked for Robert."

"Petyr Baelish?" he asked. "No, he grew up here in Riverrun. Maybe he's bringing her back here- "

"We need to get her away from him," Arya cut in. "He works for the Lannisters."

"But he was married to Aunt Lysa," he pointed out. But still she looked worried and he amended his answer: "Listen, there's little we can do until morning. I'll ride out at first light, before the wedding, and see if I can't find her. All right?"

"No," she answered, stubbornly. "Only if I come as well."

He reached over and mussed up her hair. "Of course, you can come."

She was a strong rider, better than adults twice her size. So, he genuinely didn't mind her joining him and his guards. Besides, if he said 'no', she'd only ride out on her own anyway. And now seemingly a little happier, she gave him a smile and gave him a good-night punch in the ribs.

After she had gone, he lay back in his bed now wide-awake. The wolf dreams were a strange phenomenon. He didn't know what they were, at first. But the things he saw through Grey Wind's eyes had helped him win battles. When Grey was killed at the Twins, Robb thought they'd never happen again. Then he struck up a fast friendship with a Greyhound dog and the wolf dreams became dog dreams. Just as real, just as accurate and just as disturbing.

Like with Grey Wind, it seemed to happen at random. Slowly, over time, he learned to seek the thread that bound them. It was an ability he had that he breathed a word of to no one. He hadn't even told his mother. He hadn't even told Margaery. Because, no matter how he spun it, he always felt like a madman who thought he could turn into an animal at will. And now he had to try and do it again.

Baelish was from the Fingers, he recalled. The Vale of Arryn. If Sansa was coming from the east, it was probably the Red Fork that Arya saw in the wolf dream. He closed his eyes and cleared his mind, letting himself fall out of his own corporeal body.

* * *

A soft and swirling snowfall greeted Margaery when she opened her shutters on the morning of her wedding. A thick, unbroken carpet of white now covered the packed earth grounds. It had banked up in the crenels and topped the merlons in caps of white. It was on the tree branches, settling on the leaves of the creeping ivy that climbed the walls of the turret she was in, red berries on the vines now shining red through the frost, glittering like rubies. Even in the castle forecourt, the snow cover was broken only by a set of wheelhouse tracks leading to the front entrance of the common hall.

Mesmerised by the sight of snow, she opened the latch of the window to get a better look. The land looked as if an enchantment had fallen over it, transforming the greys, greens and browns to glittering, virgin white.

"Careful, my lady, you'll freeze," Jeyne warned.

Margaery had never been stupid. She knew that snow meant cold and she was still in her nightgown – a flimsy confection of muslin and silk that only reached her knees. But seeing snow for the first time in her life, any underlying danger didn't seem possible. It was too beautiful, too enchanting.

"Only for a second, I want to touch it," she said, pushing the window open.

The sensation of being plunged in icy water was instant. A cold so intense it almost … burned. She didn't quite appreciate how the cold could burn. Quickly, she stuck her hand out of the window to catch a snowflake in the palm of her hand. Once, someone told her that each snowflake was unique and once gone, the world wouldn't know its like again. That seemed a little far-fetched to her, but she still felt a little sad when the delicate flakes melted as soon as they landed on her warm skin.

To Jeyne's relief, she closed the window. Snow as nothing new or exciting to a Northerner, more a fact of everyday life. A facet Jeyne demonstrated as she moved straight on to the business of the day.

"Here's your underskirt, but you'll need proper hose since its snowing outside. Don't worry, no one will see it under the petticoats and kirtles you'll be wearing," she explained. "Your cloak is laundered and ready for the wedding…"

The young girl carried on her rundown of wedding inventories, while Margaery looked back at the window where the snow continued to fall. All the Maester's said that winter lasted twice as long as summer, and that was very long summer they had just had. How many years had it been? She couldn't remember the last winter. Yes, the snow looked pretty. But it wouldn't be pretty when the food shortages began the smallfolk started starving in their wattle and daub huts. Snow. It was just the velvet glove softening the iron fist of winter's cruellest deprivations.

As per Northern custom, the wedding wasn't happening until evenfall which left Margaery with a day to kill. So, she dressed in a simple gown of wool and a cloak before heading down to break her fast with her grandmother and brothers. Jeyne, who had wholeheartedly supported the marriage before it was even a possibility, followed at her side and chattered excitedly about the upcoming nuptials.

Margaery broke off mid-sentence as she stepped into the common hall. Her face lighting up in a smile as it dawned on her who must have arrived while she was still asleep. The tracks in the snow made by a wheelhouse. Her mother, Lady Alerie, rose to greet her from her place at the high table.

"Mother!"

The two met in the middle of the common hall, greeting each other with a warm embrace. Alerie was soon joined by Mace, who kissed her cheek and beamed proudly. It came as a relief to see him looking happy, and not too disappointed that their plans with the Lannisters had fallen through.

"I was so afraid we'd miss the wedding," said Alerie, guiding her back to the high table. "We rode through the night, against the snow and the winds. I thought we'd never make it, but here we are and what a relief."

"Our very own Queen in the North," Mace declared, chest puffed out. He still hadn't given up on the idea of a Tyrell Queen. "This will be a son-by-law I can be proud of, and we can stick it up the Lannisters while we're about it- "

"Oh do shut up, Mace," Olenna cut in. "Had it not been your blustering about we could have done this years ago."

Olenna's barbs bounced off Mace as they always did, failing to dent his pride as they all settled at table to break their fasts together. The only cause for dismay she had now was that Robb, Arya, Garlan, Loras and Ser Brynden were all missing. In fact, there only seemed to be a few stray Tyrells left at the castle.

"Where's everyone else?" she enquired, looking around the hall as though they might be only hiding to play a trick on her. "Have you even met Robb yet?"

"Oh no, he was gone by the time we got here," replied Alerie.

"Some last-minute business to conclude over at the Red Fork, apparently," Mace added. "I'm sure he'll be back soon and we can finally meet the man who stole my daughter's heart."

Olenna might have rolled her eyes had she been younger. "I hear your daughter rather stole his, too. Anyway, enough of that hyperbolic nonsense. We have a war to win and if it's snowing in the Riverlands they will be blizzards in the North. Mace, you need to equip our men suitably. Margaery, you need to talk to Lady Taena."

"Is Taena here as well?" she asked.

"I wouldn't have missed this for the world."

Margaery turned in her seat to where Taena Merryweather sidled in through a side-door, platter of fresh bread in hand. She smiled knowingly at Margaery, winking as she took her place at table. Margaery couldn't say how happy she was to see her again.

"Taena, I thought you'd been sucked into the lion's den for good," she said. "How are you? Has there been any word of Elinor and Megga? I have heard nothing since their arrest."

Taena sighed, casually tearing at a heel of bread. "Little and less, I regret to say. Next time you see Cersei you should ask her, since she's now probably chained to the same crossbeam as them."

Margaery's brow furrowed as she deciphered what she was hearing. "Do you mean to say Cersei has been locked up?"

"I thought the realm had been rather quiet of late," Olenna remarked, drily. "Tell me, has she been locked up to protect the realm or to protect her from herself?"

Taena snorted derisively. "They locked her up because she was fucking Lancel Lannister and killed her husband to make room for him in her bed."

Margaery's eyes widened. She had heard the rumours about Robert's death, but not even she had given them much credence. "All the same, I believe Cersei's bed is still rather crowded, what with Jaime having been in there for the last fourteen years."

"Oh no, he's vanished as well," replied Taena. "Do you remember that great aurochs of a woman from Tarth? Word has it Jaime is a changed man since travelling down the Riverlands with her. Whatever the truth, he was sent away weeks ago and hasn't been seen since. The Queen is alone and only Tommen's cats remain to advise him now."

It should have been sad to see a family as great as the Lannisters had been, reduced to this. But Margaery felt only anger toward them now. A strange anger she couldn't quite articulate. "All those wasted lives, all the blood on their hands, and for what? This mummer's farce. This abject humiliation. Cersei may well be cast down by her own hand, but she's dragged us all to hell with her."

She found she had quite lost her appetite.

* * *

"Tyrells ahead. A half-hour's ride at most."

Jon's attention was dragged from the conversation he was having with Sam, toward the outrider who'd sought out Lord Royce. Then he got Sansa in his line of sight. The Tyrells knew her and they still thought she killed the king. As though she had felt his gaze on her back, Sansa turned toward him, paling slightly.

"How many?" asked Lord Royce.

"More than a hundred. We couldn't get precise numbers."

Even if there were only a few hundred Tyrells, Jon wanted Sansa back by his side. He motioned her over, pulling his own horse aside to make room for hers. Once she was safely out of sight, a group of knights also formed a protective circle around them as they continued their journey. They had no choice but to continue and they were bound to meet enemy forces at some point. Jon had known that from the off. But, now that the moment had arrived, Jon's nerves prickled unpleasantly. Fighting disorganised wildlings was one thing. Fighting highly trained knights from the Reach would be something else altogether.

"Sam, do you think you could get an audience with the Tyrells?"

"I think they might be a bit more sceptical now I'm showing up with the Vale at my back," he opined. "Still, I'm sure we'll think of something."

Sansa offered him a smile, but she wasn't looking too confident.

"Do you think Baelish might be able to talk to them?"

"Probably," she replied. "He knows some of their secrets, so it might be in their best interests to listen to him."

Baelish was the last person Jon wanted to ask for help, but he would if it meant avoiding skirmishes or, worse still, open battle with the Reach. As for those 'secrets', Jon didn't want to imagine what they were but he couldn't help but wonder if it had anything to do with the poisoned amethyst hairnet she still had in her possession.

In the meantime, their journey continued. The snow had stopped, but there was enough of it lying thick on the ground to muffle the sound of their horse's hooves. When they huddled together in a large group, they were even able to share a little much needed body warmth. Even so, his fingers felt frozen to his horse's reins. It struck him as ominous that it was now almost as cold in the south as it was beyond the wall.

"I'm going to the front," said Sam. "I want to see who's leading the Tyrells. Knowing my luck, it'll be my father."

"But won't it be sweet to see your father again, Sam?" Sansa asked, blissfully ignorant of the truth.

Sam shivered in response and gave her a doleful look. Gilly and the baby were on one of the covered carts at the rear of the procession, so he didn't even have her for moral support. All the same, he urged his horse on past their guards and vanished from sight. He was replaced by Sandor Clegane, who followed Sansa around like a second shadow. The Hound was another Jon couldn't make his mind up about. Last time they met, at Winterfell, he had been King Joffrey's bodyguard and he couldn't get that out of his head.

"We're stopping," said Sansa. "This must be them."

"Don't worry, the Knights of the Vale won't let them take you," he assured her. "Nor will I."

Sansa looked less than convinced, but Jon didn't take it personally. When the consequences of failure were being marched to the city and beheaded in front of a crowd of jeering enemies, he surmised he would probably have felt the same.

Meanwhile, golden rose banners could be seen nearby, meeting with the falcon of House Arryn. Anticipating troubled, Jon dismounted and began threading his way through the press of knights. While it was imperative that Sansa remained hidden, no Tyrell would know him from a Child of the Forest. So, he took his chances while praying Dark Sister could remain in her sheath.

Eventually, he could see that Sam was some way off, speaking with a knight a year or so older than Jon himself, also surrounded by a gaggle of knights from the Reach. The young man speaking to Sam was the sort of specimen Sansa would have gone weak-kneed over, had times been very different. And, whoever he was, he definitely wasn't Randyll Tarly. His real identity was revealed moments later, when Sam caught Jon's eye.

"Lord Commander, Ser Loras of House Tyrell would like to speak with you." Sam looked rather perplexed as he spoke, and Jon didn't know what to make of that.

Besides, the knight was an actual Tyrell and not just a bannerman. He supposed he should feel honoured. However, he approached the two men carefully, knowing not what to expect from this meeting and acutely aware of his men not far away. Down the hillside, a much larger company of Tyrells had amassed alongside the banks of the Red Fork. Although large, the Vale army was much larger. Should it come to it, Jon assured himself they could take them easily.

"Ser Loras," Jon greeted the man, thankful to Sam for not using his real name.

Their hands met in a gruff shake.

"Good to meet you, Lord Commander Stark. You're just in time for the wedding, but we really need to get a move on. My sister will be spitting fire if we tarry much longer-"

"Forgive me, Ser Loras, but what wedding?"

"My wedding," came the reply from a third person.

Jon's heart jumped into his throat as Robb came cantering up the hillside, mounted on a white charger. Swearing under his breath, he side-stepped Loras Tyrell and ran up to meet his brother's horse. Once level with each other, Robb slid down from the saddle and into Jon's arms like they were a pair of swooning lovers reunited at last.

"It's good to see you again, brother," they chorused.

When they drew apart, Jon noticed the snowflakes melting in his hair, just like the last time they saw each other. It felt like a different lifetime. In a way, it was. A lot had happened. And more had clearly happened since Harwin had been sent North. Jon could guess at what, but it promised to be an interesting story.

They looked at each other for a moment, each taking in the other. It hadn't occurred to Jon that he had changed, too.

"I missed you," said Jon. "I thought I'd never see you again."

Just for a moment, Robb seemed lost for words. "And I you, brother."

"Whoever you're marrying, I'm glad I made it in time for the wedding."

"Lady Margaery," he replied, almost sheepishly. "We, er, we got on rather well and … and the rest just followed, really."

Jon laughed. He tried to stop himself, but he laughed anyway. "I think I ought to have guessed you would have gotten the enemy on your side by the time I got here. Well, look, we can't be sobbing into each other's shoulders like maids. There's someone else you need to meet before we go…"

He gestured some distance away, where the Knights of the Vale were amassing at the hilltop. Although, Jon had quite forgotten that Sansa was hidden away from sight, lest the Tyrells march her back to King's Landing. Robb looked at them and sighed heavily with relief.

"You raised the Vale? How?"

"Not I, brother," he corrected.

Having heard everything, Sam had had the presence of mind to return to Sansa and bring her out from her protective shell. As she emerged, she made a choking noise that might have been an attempt at speech, but she never got to finish the sentence before Robb had her in his arms. He held her tight, kissing her brow and her cheek, tightening his hold on her. Where he'd greeted Jon as long-lost brothers, he greeted Sansa with profuse apologies and seeking her forgiveness.

Sansa looked as perplexed as Jon felt. "There is nothing to forgive…"

But Robb had left her alone, surrounded by her enemies, at the mercy of a tyrant king to be used as a pawn in other people's games. Baelish watched over the scene unfolding before him, as pale as the snow that surrounded them. Jon's surge of triumph was interrupted by a punch in the ribs.

"Ow!"

"You stupid!"

Words he had longed to hear since he left the Vale.

"Arya!" he choked. "Little sister!"

She beamed up at him before he gathered her up in his arms. Taller, stronger, harder than he remembered. But it was still Arya, and that was all that mattered to him. They remained like that for longer than Jon cared to keep track. But when they did, Sansa had come over, leaving Robb to get acquainted with Lord Royce, commander of the Vale Knights.

For a long moment, the girls looked at each other. Sisters, rivals, adversaries … but always sisters first. Their embrace was a surprisingly tender thing, after the rushed and firm reunions that had happened so far. Nothing was said, but some things were beyond mere words.

* * *

"Knowing the Groom's history, it is entirely possible that he's met and married a Frey girl by now." Naturally, Olenna was being facetious but Margaery couldn't bring herself to smile at the quip. Robb had been gone all day and evenfall was fast approaching. She had her wedding gown on and her mother had arranged her hair into a tumble of loose, golden-brown curls decorated with slender tendrils of stringed diamonds. The gems caught the light and winked whenever she moved her head. Now, unless Robb got home soon, all their efforts would have been in vain.

"Anything could have happened," she said, getting up and pacing the common hall. "He could have been captured. He could have been killed. What if this sighing of Lady Sansa had been passed on by someone looking to lure him into a trap. He would have risked it for her sake."

"Sweetling, he has a guard two hundred strong," Lady Alerie pointed out. "Now sit down before you crease your dress."

Despite the assurances, Margaery was still having difficulty transferring her worry from the safety of her future husband to the creases in her dress. Alas, her pacing continued as darkness began to fall.

Meanwhile, Ser Brynden was outside, overseeing the decoration of the godswood. He had it looking beautiful, from what Margaery had seen. Beacons lit the path to the heart tree, providing a little warmth and making the snow cover shimmer with the reflected flames. The redwoods and elms looked half alive.

Still she worried. And, by the time she heard the horns sounding at the gatehouse, she was almost lightheaded.

"If that's him, I don't know if I'll kiss him or smack him," she sighed.

But her sentiments were drowned out by the sound of horse's hooves clattering over the cobbles outside. She rushed to the window, peering outside with her heart hammering in her throat only to sink away in relief as he appeared in the torchlight outside. Four riders, their horses abreast, came cantering into the forecourt beyond. Robb, Arya, a man of about Robb's age she did not know and Sansa.

Tears sprang into her eyes at the sight of the four of them and she hurriedly sought out Jeyne.

"Jeyne, it's Sansa. He found her," she beamed, reaching for her hand. "Come quick!"

Together, they hurried outside, braving the freezing weather to greet them. Robb found her immediately, hurriedly apologising. But whatever frustration she had had long melted away, replaced only by relief and a surge of love. It could only be love. She had known it already, but this was the measure of it. She loved him desperately and would have married him last year had she but known it. To show what she could not say, she stilled his apologies with a kiss.

They broke apart with a sheepish laugh as he cleared his throat and introduced her to his brother. The two of them were as different as night and day, but he greeted her warmly as his new sister-by-law. Sansa, she already knew and they embraced each other warmly. The look on her face was happiness and utter disbelief.

"You're marrying my brother?" she asked, smiling from ear to ear. "You're really getting married?"

"We won't, if he doesn't hurry up and get ready!" she laughed.

Sansa didn't reply. She fell silent as she looked past Margaery, to where Jeyne was holding back as if afraid to get too close.

"Jeyne?" she said. "Jeyne, Petyr told me you were dead."

The girl looked up, shaking her head and biting back tears.

"He sold her in one of his brothels," Margaery whispered in her ear so low only they could hear. "To the Boltons, passing her off as Arya."

Sansa paled, her happiness at being reunited with old friends hardened into something else. Margaery could see why, since Petyr had followed them into Riverrun. He was holding back now as well, dismounting his horse looking like a man who'd been lured into a trap. The look on Sansa's face passed.

"Petyr can wait," she said, a hardness in her voice that Margaery had not heard before. Turning to Jeyne, she smiled again. "Jeyne and I have too much to catch up on for me to be wasting time with him."

The spell broke and the two girls, reunited at last, fell on each other, all tears and hugs. But Petyr Baelish was a problem. A problem that needed dealing with sooner, rather than later. And poor Theon Greyjoy, she thought, he should not be all alone in those dungeons.

"Sorry about the wedding. We'd have gotten our arses into motion had we known."

Margaery turned to find Jon at her side. It was just the two of them, and Arya, now that everyone else was getting reacquainted. Even Robb had been hastily bundled away for a bath and a change of clothes, ready for the wedding. By her estimation, it would be at least an hour before it started now. She didn't mind, though. Not now. Not now all their families were together at last.

"I've always wanted a midnight wedding, Lord Commander," she said. "Rather romantic, don't you think?"

During the wait, she was not idle either. The girls all hurried to her rooms, where they were hastily washed and changed into whatever silk dresses Margaery could find. Even Arya looked the part, with her hair now long enough to be properly braided. The dress she wore once belonged to Margaery's cousin. Although a little long and a little too wide, the bodices tightened easily enough and squeezed it into shape. All would be well, so long as she remembered to lift her hems.

Margaery stood back and took in the sight of the girl they all used to call Arya Horseface. She had made liars of them all.

"There," said Margaery, turning her toward a full-length mirror. "That's turned out rather nicely, I think."

Although she said nothing, a faint blush crept up the girls face as she delicately touched her braided hair. One of her protectors had shorn it off, disguising her as a boy. As Robb said, she would never have said as much, but it had knocked the girl's self-esteem just as much as being called childish names.

They were just about done when the knock came to her door and her father's voice called them out. From the corner of her eye, she saw Sansa fold the Stark wedding cloak over her arm and it finally hit Margaery that the moment had come. At last. The atmosphere among them changed from excitement to nervous tension as they formed a lined behind the bride. It was time to be married.


	19. The Only Way is Down

All around Margaery the snowfalls swirled on the breeze, the flakes shimmering in the light of the beacons that lit the path to the heart tree. The flames swayed, causing the shadows of the redwoods to rise and fall. There was something primal and ethereal, almost majestic, about the setting. Something that couldn't be conjured or manufactured. The ritual felt ancient because it was ancient.

Before setting off, father and daughter turned to look at each other for one last time. The tear in his eye might have been the icy-wind but, somehow, she thought not as he smoothed down her maiden cloak and fasted it more securely beneath her chin. Gently, he brushed away the snowflakes that had landed on the golden rose sigil before linking his arm through her own. An understanding passed between them, that this was it. The time had come.

Arm in arm, they processed through the snow, up the path lined with silent spectators each holding a small, flickering candle. The strange, raw beauty of the scene hit her all over again. There was no incense here, only nature, wet earth and freezing waters. The only light came from the myriad candles and beacons, their warmth lost among winter's onslaught.

Where the redwoods thinned and opened onto a clearing dominated by the solemn-faced heart tree, Margaery and Mace came to a halt. The clearing was circled by their families, both Stark and Tyrell, nursing small candles and watching on in silence. Only Ser Brynden was beneath the tree itself. When she sought out Robb, she found him flanked by Jon and Sansa, with Arya close by with the Stark wedding cloak folded over her arms.

Barely perceptibly, she noticed Jon giving Robb a nudge into the clearing, grinning at his brother briefly before remembering the solemnity of the occasion and turning serious again. Meanwhile, Robb emerged into the circle of pale, flickering light and her heartbeat raced. Dressed in the colours of his house, his doublet was grey silk lined with white ermine. At his hip, a longsword was sheathed in a black scabbard embossed with the Stark direwolf.

"Who comes before the gods this night?" Ser Brynden's softly spoken challenge broke the silence of the godswood, snapping Margaery out of her thoughts.

She held her breath as her father answered. "Lady Margaery of House Tyrell, comes here to be wed. A noblewoman, trueborn and flowered, she comes to beg the blessing of the gods. Who claims her?"

Standing beneath the boughs of the heart tree, her betrothed staked his claim: "I do. Robb, of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and King in the North. Who gives her?"

"I, Mace of House Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South." Arm in arm, they made their way to the sacred tree where Robb was already waiting for her. "Margaery, do you take this man?"

"I do," she answered firmly, without hesitation.

"Robb, do you take this woman?"

"I do."

Mace let go of her, entrusting her to the protection of her new husband, who returned the gesture by unfastening the cloak's clasp beneath her chin. The garment fell away easily, a sudden draught of icy-air making her shiver until Arya stepped forward bearing the Stark cloak. Robb took it from her, before sweeping it around Margaery's shoulders. The golden rose had fallen away, replaced by the snarling direwolf and her pride surged. Her grandmother always complained about the Tyrell sigil being so pathetic. Not like the direwolf that covered her now. A memory they shared as Margaery met her grandmother's gaze over Robb's shoulder. The old matriarch smiled approvingly.

She and Robb joined hands and turned to face the heart tree, which looked back at them through sombre, sap-weeping eyes of red. They knelt, finding themselves even with the carved face and, not for the first time, she felt like she really was being watched by the tree. There was a peculiar form a life behind those eyes. The old gods didn't just see her, they saw through her.

After a minute's silent prayer, they rose and faced each other. For a long moment heavy with anticipation, they looked into each other's eyes before their lips met in a kiss that sealed their union. And it was done. They were husband and wife.

* * *

No matter how much he wished he could skip the feast and cut to the bedchamber, Robb knew it was only polite for him and his new bride to actually show their faces at the feast. So, with their arms entwined awkwardly around each other, they more stumbled than walked back to Riverrun. But they couldn't let each other go. They stopped to resume their kissing every few steps until Arya punched him in the leg by way of suggesting they should, perhaps, give it a rest for now. He couldn't let her pass without trying to muss up her neatly braided hair.

"Our children are all going to be like her, you know," he said, gently tugging a braid. "I would have told you sooner, only I needed this alliance too much."

While Margaery laughed aloud, Arya replied with a fistful of snowball that smashed against the side of his head. Before he could get her back, she darted into the crowds heading toward the castle. Besides, Jon had already moved to his side and blocked the path of his attack. They paused while Jon kissed the cheek of his new sister-by-law and congratulated them both.

"Only you could do this, brother," he said.

"What?" he asked.

"You know what," Jon laughed. "Go from having nothing at all, being surrounded by your enemies one minute, to wedded, almost bedded and rallying forces around you the next. I should have known!"

But Robb was serious when he replied: "I still need you here, though. No matter what."

"You're going to make me blush in a minute."

"I very much doubt that. Where's Sansa going?" Robb could just see her, speaking with their uncle before slipping through a side door and out of sight. It was a door leading to a turret, not the common hall where the late-night wedding supper was being held.

"I can't be certain, but I think she's having a word about a mutual friend of theirs," replied Jon, guardedly. "Don't worry about it, I'm sure she'll sort something out."

Robb hesitated before speaking what was on his mind. "She's still angry with me, isn't she? I understand if she is- "

"She really isn't. Seven hells, Robb. It's freezing out here, in case you hadn't noticed, and I'm starving. Let's just go inside and eat."

"I agree," Margaery concurred, stretching up to kiss Robb's cheek. "I spoke to Sansa before the wedding and she seemed fine."

Once back in the common hall, they took their places up on the dais overlooking the long trestle tables laid on for the guests. So late at night, heavy courses had been ruled out. Instead, pastries and light soups and bread was brought out. Something hot and hearty after a wedding ceremony conducted outside in sub-zero temperatures. To mark the occasion, the Tully trout had been temporarily taken down and replaced with alternating golden roses and snarling Direwolves.

With his wife on one side and his brother on the other, Robb allowed himself a triumphant smile as the soup was served. A fleeting feeling, in the knowledge that the worst of the wars were yet to come. Which reminded him…

"The last we heard from you, Jon, you said something about an army of dead men," he began. "I got the feeling that was more than just a pessimistic assessment of your newest recruits."

Jon's expression remained impassive as he made a start on his bread and soup. "You don't want to hear about that now."

"No, please," said Margaery, leaning to the side to hear better. "My father says he received a letter from Maester Aemon, some time ago. But he knew not what to make of it. Wait, while I summon my brother, Ser Garlan. He'll know what to do."

While she passed on a message via a servant, Jon turned to summon his friend, Sam, and his wildling lover. While Robb knew who and what she was, her presence had made some of the others uncomfortable. All the same, she clutched her baby to her chest and cautiously made her way to the dais, ignoring the suspicious looks she attracted from all sides. Once they were all together, they pushed away from the table and sat in a wide circle so they could all confer.

"I've seen the white walkers myself," Jon began. "Sam here fought one and defeated it using a dagger of dragonglass. Tell them, Sam."

Already being well acquainted with each other, Sam and Garlan were sat close by and it was he that Sam addressed more than anyone else.

"Lord Commander Stark speaks truly," he said. "The white walkers are many in number, but their armies of wights are beyond counting. Gilly can tell you, too. She's a wildling, but she's an honest woman and brave with it."

While Margaery just looked a little nonplussed, Robb was wrestling with his own uncertainty. Until this moment, white walkers existed in his life in the form of Old Nan's hearth tales that he had heard as a child. They were legends, if they ever existed at all. But he knew his brother and he knew his brother well enough to trust the people he called friends.

Now Gilly was telling her story. "I grew up in a small keep beyond the wall. My father married his daughters, me as well, and if we birthed a son, he gifted the boy to the gods. The gods were the Others, the Great Other. When I had my son, Sam saved me and brought me to Castle Black. On the way there, the Others came to claim my son. So Sam stabbed it with the dragonglass. It's true, I saw it. I saw them."

Robb looked at the child in her arms. He was older than a baby, and fast asleep against her breast. When she first appeared in the crowds during their journey to Riverrun, he just assumed Samwell was the father. The truth, it seemed, was something altogether even more sinister.

"Robb, I don't understand," Margaery whispered in his ear, jolting him out of his thoughts. "Others? White Walkers? Wights? Are they all the same… I'm not certain."

"No," he answered. "What we call white walkers, folk north of the wall call them Others. They're hard to explain. They're not exactly human, but they take the form of humans. They have two arms and two legs and all the rest of it. But their skin is like ice and their eyes burn blue, like stars. That's what old Nan said, anyway. Regardless, they have powers and they resurrect the dead as thralls to fight their wars – they're wights. The more dead there are, the bigger their army gets."

Jon took up the explanation. "The wights are just meat puppets, fighting at the behest of the Others. They retain no memories of their lives, nor recognise any kin."

"How do you kill something that's already dead?" she asked, her voice low.

"Fire," said Jon. "Fire and more fire. Burn the dead away and hope for the best."

"You can't kill the Others with fire alone, though," said Gilly. "They make the air so cold the fire just goes out. That's how we free folk know they're close. The cold burns, the darkness gets thicker and even the stars go out. That's when they come and none can stop them."

"The free folk are not our enemy, Robb," said Jon, but looking to Garlan as well. "They're just people, like you and I. Someone once said to me the only difference between us and them is, when that wall went up, our ancestors were living on the right side of it."

Ser Garlan drained his wine, clearly mulling over all he had heard. He wasn't like other lords. There was nothing superior about him, nor did he ever dismiss anything out of hand. And his words were always carefully measured. "Your friend had the right of it, Lord Commander. We knew all along the wildlings – forgive me, Gilly, the free-folk – were only human. While I'm certain their lives and customs are very different to our own, that comes from putting up a huge wall between us and them. But there must have been a reason why the wall was built. Brandon the Builder didn't do just because he could. And these Others, white walkers… we were told about them in stories and now this…" He paused, concentrating on the middle distance. "Now we have the Knights of the Vale fighting on our side, we have men to spare. Not many, but some. I want to propose an expedition beyond the wall. We can sail from Seagard, once the Freys are dealt with. From there, we go North and we see for ourselves- "

"Why, when the Lord Commander has already told us?" Margaery cut in. "For now, the wall stands. I propose we take back the North as planned, pray the wall holds back these armies and then send for proper help. You say fire kills wights? Then I suggest we find a lady who has three dragons growing large in Essos."

"Daenerys Targaryen?" Jon asked. "I heard about these dragons in Braavos. They say they're large and strong, that they already carry her weight."

"She's coming here anyway," said Robb. "But I'm also with Garlan. I want to see what's out there. I want to know what we're up against. But first, we need to take back the North."

Suddenly, that seemed like it might be the easy bit.

* * *

While Petyr settled in a window seat looking out over the grounds of Riverrun, Sansa poured the wine. They had come to the rooms he once occupied as a boy, where a fire had been lit and now blazed in the hearth. She hoped it reminded him of happier times. "I'm sorry for the way I spoke to you. I shouldn't have said those things. Not after everything you've done for me. Lysa would have put me through the moon door had it not been for your intervention. Here, a peace offering, if I may."

Petyr smiled as he took the glass from her. "It's nothing, sweet child. But you should have told me. You should have told me the minute you found out that your brother was alive and wed to the Tyrell girl."

"I honestly didn't know myself until a few hours ago," she protested, truthfully. "Well, I knew about Robb of course. But not the Tyrell marriage. I thought she would wed Tommen; I'm just as shocked as you."

"Your brother is the main point I was referring to," he stated. "However, it is done now."

"It ruined your plans, I suppose," she said, lowering her gaze coyly.

"Nothing ruins my plans, I thought you would have known that by now," Petyr replied, smiling that smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Sometimes, something comes up and I'm compelled to re-evaluate and re-shape those plans. But nothing is so great that they're scuppered altogether. You have to think fast, Sansa, be pragmatic and learn how to turn things to your advantage. I can still teach you that and you can still take what you want. All you need is to spot the weakness."

Sansa hesitated, turning her gaze out over the grounds where her mother and aunt once played when they were children. The sighing of the wind could almost be the ghost of their laughter, back when they were young, before the malignancy of Petyr Baelish seeped into their lives.

"Was Lord Arryn a weakness?" she asked, tightening her grip on the stem of her glass. "Is that you needed Lysa to kill him?"

Petyr didn't reply immediately, he spent a moment or two swirling the wine in his glass. "Your aunt really was a troubled woman, Sansa. Those things she said to you, before her death-"

"When you pushed her out of the moon door, Petyr," she cut in, playfully chiding him. She smiled, in case he felt she was scolding him.

"You are a direct young lady," he laughed uneasily. "You need to curtail that-"

"You scared me, Petyr," she pointed out, thinking fast. "I thought if I said the wrong thing you would do the same to me."

"Never," he stated, firmly. "Sansa, you know how I feel about you. You know I love you. I'd give you the world on a platter of gold, just to see you smile. Lysa … you heard her. She was running wild at the mouth and she would have got us all killed. Strike or be stricken – another lesson I thought you learned well."

"I have, Petyr, I've learned so much from you," she assured him. Her gaze fell on his wine glass, wondering whether he needed a top-up. "But Sandor told me about the day my father was arrested, when you told him he had the gold cloaks and it turned out to be a lie. I always blamed myself for father's death. But-"

"Renly," Petyr cut in again. "Renly stole the goldcloaks from under me and shafted your Lord father. But Sandor is right. I have my share of the guilt. You know how I've worked to put right that grave injustice."

There was a moment of silence in which they both sipped their wine. A fine red from the Arbour, not too sweet and not too dry. When Sansa held her glass up to the moonlight, the wine shone, incandescent like rubies.

"I still don't understand why you had Lysa write to my mother, telling her that the Lannisters poisoned Jon Arryn," she continued. "I mean, it's so risky. Very risky. Had the letter been intercepted, or had Lysa told just one person that it was at your instigation…"

He was smiling now, his grey-green eyes shining. It made her skin crawl as she realised he genuinely enjoyed what he did. "Ah, well, you see, your mother and your aunt Lysa had a secret language that only they knew. It was a game they played as girls. That was how the letter was coded. So, even if it had been intercepted, the letter wouldn't have been understood. Similarly, when Cat got the letter, she knew exactly what it meant and exactly where it had come from."

Sansa smiled. "You're so clever, Petyr." After caressing his pride, she paused and turned her gaze out of the window again. "Before you pushed Lysa out of the moon door, you said in her ear: ' _Only Cat'_. What did you mean by that?"

She watched as he drank more of his wine before setting the glass down. "I really did love your mother. Yes, you're more beautiful even than Catelyn. But I loved her. She was the only woman I'd ever loved, until I met you." Petyr sat up abruptly and beckoned her closer to the window, gesturing to a yard down below where the thick snow glittered in the moonlight. "See down there? That's were I duelled your Uncle Brandon. I would have died for your mother, Sansa."

He drew back and cleared his throat noisily. Frowning, he soon settled again.

"Would you die for me?" she asked, sipping her wine.

"I'd have died once for your mother," he answered. "I'd die a hundred times for you."

"That's sweet of you," she smiled. "I suppose, after Brandon almost killed you, that was when you decided you wanted everything we had."

"We?" he clarified, undoing the top button of his shirt.

"The Starks," she said. "I am as much a Stark as Brandon was, as my father was. I suppose, what I'm saying is, that was the day you decided to destroy my family."

Petyr flushed in the face. "I don't know what you mean. Your father was an honourable man-"

"That you helped destroy," she stated. "You played a long game and, I'll credit you, you almost succeeded."

He picked up his glass and drained the contents, an action Sansa mimicked with her own. She sat up, straight backed and watched impassively. Petyr sounded rather short of breath now. He really didn't like where their talk was going and picked nervously at his collar.

"I really don't know what you're talking about, Sansa."

"Chaos is a ladder, you once told me," she reminded him. "But you never did get around to teaching me about what to do when you reach the top of that ladder." She paused, thinking it over for a second. "It doesn't take a Grand Maester to realise that, once at the top, the only way is down."

She twirled her empty glass between her fingers, the silence broken by Petyr's smashing against the oak floor. Glass shards sprinkled over her silk slippers. He tried to rise, but his knees buckled and his words were choked back in his swelling throat. Sansa reached into her pocket, drawing out a silver hairnet. Amethysts glittered darkly in the firelight; two were missing now. A few strands of her auburn hair were still caught in the delicate silver threads. They burned like small strands of flame. Sansa held the hairnet over his face, where she hoped he could see it through the eyes now starting to bulge.

"The only way is down," she repeated, flatly. "It seems this is a lesson I have had to teach you, Petyr. Who'd have thought."

While Petyr choked and writhed on the floor, slow measured footsteps sounded behind her. Sansa knew who it was and the small hand landing on her shoulder did not alarm her. At her side, Jeyne watched the whoremonger die choking on his own vomit, clawing at his swollen throat. Just like Joffrey, his face turned from red to purple, a thick yellow froth foamed from his mouth as he tried to form words. Words smothered in his chest as the strangler did its work.

"Don't look away, Jeyne," she said, covering her old friends hand with her own. "Don't look away."

It was hard to tell where Petyr was looking. Those grey-green eyes that never smiled were quite beyond it now, as they bulged out of his head. Growing weaker by the second, Petyr collapsed limply against the floor, still staring wildly up at nothing in particular. The choking gargles grew thinner and weaker, before fading into silence and the light left his eyes.

Ser Brynden emerged from his own hiding place shaking and pale, tears glittering on his cheeks as he learned of how his niece really died and the terrible things she had done. He up-ended his own glass of wine, spilling the contents deliberately over the dead man's face, aiming for the unseeing eyes. Sansa pitied him, but he had to know the truth. They all had to know and retribution was needed. She pocketed the hairnet and rose to leave, finding Arya watching from the doorway. Her mouth was open in shock, her eyes wide as she watched Sansa drawing nearer.

"Come, sister," she said, casually. "And you, Jeyne. We're missing the wedding feast."

Brynden followed as well, silent with grief. There was nothing Sansa could say, so she didn't. She made her way to the common hall, where Robb and Margaery still dined among their friends. Still numb and dazed from what just happened, Sansa made her way to the dais where she ruffled Jon's hair as she passed and paused between Robb and Margaery. Both turned to look at her.

"A wedding gift, sister," she said, holding out the amethyst hairnet. "From Joffrey and I."

Margaery's brow creased for a moment, but recognition lit up her golden-brow eyes as they settled on the amethysts. She took the garment in her fingers, holding it up to the light and smiling at the empty clasps where the two missing gems should have been. Their gaze met and their smiles matched.

* * *

There was no need for bedding ceremonies where the old gods were concerned. As such, Robb found himself alone in his chambers while Margaery undressed in the antechamber. She could hear the rustle of fabrics being removed, laces being picked apart by her handmaiden, Jeyne Poole. Only Jon had accompanied him, leaving him at the door with a heart slap on the back and a suggestive wink to see him on his way.

While he waited for Margaery, he couldn't help but stand at the foot of his bed and regard the place where he'd spent months of sleepless nights. Nights filled with grief, and guilt and crippling isolation. It was a time when all hope had been lost and he'd been cut adrift. Although things were now as different as night and day, he knew he would hold on to the memory of that time. It was a reminder of all he had to lose, as well as all that he had already lost. For even with Margaery's arrival his mother, Talisa and the unborn baby all remained lost to him. None of them deserved it.

"How do I look?"

The sound of Margaery's voice drew him from his inner-musings, to where she stood in the archway between the two connected rooms. She wore a sheer silk nightrail that skimmed the length of her body, outlining the curve of her hips and accentuating the line of her thighs. Robb smiled wolfishly as he approached her.

"Forgive me," he said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I have but one improvement to make."

"And what might that be?" she asked, moving closer so the moonlight shone on her face.

She shivered as his breath warmed the pale skin of her throat. He kissed her there softly, as he reached up behind her neck where he unlaced the nightrail and let it slip down her body.

"There," he said. "A vast improvement."

"Oh well, in that case…"

She whipped the shirt over his head in one rapid motion, leaving him equally naked as his name day. Wasting no more time on words, they met and kissed deeply, falling back on the bed as they grappled at each other in their first frantic efforts at love-making. The mattress dipped and sunk inwards, as if trying to swallow them both.

Poised over her, Robb took a moment to admire the sight of her naked beneath him. The way her hair fanned out against the pillow and need in her eyes as they met his own. Starting with her breasts, he kissed his way down her belly all the way to her groin where he worked at her with his tongue alone, until hit the spot and she stifled a groan of pleasure.

"Now!" she gasped, breathlessly, "Now, damn you."

"As my lady commands," he replied, smiling once more as they became husband and wife in body as well as in law.


	20. The Winter Queen

Caught in a moment between sleep and consciousness, Margaery remembered nothing. She stirred and sighed, stretched out her limbs as if clawing her way back to her senses. But it wasn't until Robb rolled over in his sleep that the night before came barrelling back into her memory. The wedding, the heart tree; the dull yet sweet ache of the consummation still warming her belly. It felt like turning the pages and reading the happy ending of her favourite story all over again.

Robb slept on, one fist curled tight around the edge of the quilt. His face half a blur in the poor light of dawn that only now crept through the shutters. So early, the on coming day was barely a rumour. Briefly, she willed him to wake but soon changed her mind. All too soon, morning would come and their brief time alone would be snatched away from them. Daylight would bring the war to their door and push them out the gates, back onto the tattered battlefields of the Riverlands. Only the gods knew when they would have their next night of peace.

For her, however, the night was done. Careful not to wake him, she kissed his furrowed brow and smoothed the wrinkles away, before getting out of bed and leaving him to his dreams. On the bedside table, amethysts shone hard, cold and black in their web of silver lacing.  _So long, Petyr Baelish_ , she thought as she picked up the hairnet,  _we'll hunt you through the seven hells one of these fine days_.

The hairnet laced through her fingers until she found the empty eyelets where stones had been removed. One for Joffrey, one for Petyr. She could see Joff still. Purple in the face, frothing at the mouth; his eyes bulging from their sockets as the strangler did its work. She traced her finger around the empty eyelets, caressing them softly and the child tyrant died all over again in the depths of her imagination. The memory left her cold and alone.

How long had it been? It could be no more than six months, but felt like a lifetime. Half a year, in a world where it took twice that time to traverse one end of the land to the other, felt like no time at all. No respecter of time, circumstance had swept her away and off the edges of her own expectations. She was glad of the momentary loss of control: it had been a thrill.

Back then, she had told Loras she could dream of love all she liked, but would always wake up to reality. She remembered how he had looked at her, like she was some unfeeling creature going out of her way to blot the sun from her life. The truth was, back then, she didn't think she was missing out on much. Love was something other people did, usually before a great and terrible fall. Love made people soft; love made people complacent and careless when they most needed clear heads and stone hearts.

Now, she was standing in a cold stone room, looking back at her husband and realising Loras had been right all along and she was wrong. Her dreams and her reality had collided and the man she loved was there in their bed, his seed sticking in her belly. She prayed for it to quicken. Everything was in the balance; the scales might even be tipped slightly in their favour. But she knew she could not grow soft and comfortable. Nothing could be taken for granted in the wars to come. They had the army, they had the claim and they had right on their side. The best thing she could do now was get with child and birth a son. A new prince in the North. A promise for a future every man north of the Neck could rally behind, free from the taint of his father's mistakes. Should it happen soon, she knew, Cersei won't know what's hit her. Cersei, that great monopoliser of motherhood… Margaery's skin prickled with gooseflesh, her body stiffening for the fight ahead.

The rumple of bedsheets drew her from her musings, turning her back toward the bed where Robb now sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Her smile came easily as she climbed back up beside him, one hand reaching out to smooth down the back of his hair.

"Wife," he murmured.

"Husb-" her reply cut off as their lips met, one strong arm pulling her back under the covers. The warmth closed over her, soft and inviting.

Afterwards, when his seed was spent and they lay back against the bank of pillows, morning had broken. Freezing fog and snowdrifts from the North had come to greet them and bring them home. She felt like a character in a story. A winter queen, brittle and beautiful. No one had made her feel like that before. Only Robb.

* * *

Their father always said poison was a woman's weapon. Only now, Jon realised, that it hadn't been a derogatory statement. The way in which Sansa had dealt with Petyr Baelish, once he recovered from the shock of it, he realised had been neat and clean and efficient. He touched the corpse with the toe of his boot, where it lay naked in the snow. Not even the dignity of a loin cloth had been afforded the former Master of Coin and Lord of Harrenhal; both Jon and Ser Brynden were trying not to notice the bulging erection rigor mortis had bestowed upon the corpse in the hours since his death.

"A little less of that and he wouldn't have been in this fix in the first place," the Blackfish wryly remarked, his cold blue eyes directed pointedly at the opposite riverbank. "Well, let's get this over with."

Two soldiers dressed in Tully livery stepped forward and lifted the dead man, one under the shoulders and the other by the ankles, where they lifted him like a sack of turnips into a small wooden boat. Without fuss or preamble, Ser Brynden took up the longbow and touched an arrow to the flames of a nearby beacon. But after that, he paused as if racked with indecision.

"My Cat didn't get this. None of it."

For a brief and stupid moment, Jon thought he was referring to a once beloved pet. Then realised he was referring to Lady Stark.

"I'm sorry, Ser Brynden." There was little else he could say, without making himself a liar by gushing about what a wonderful woman his niece was and how she deserved a tomb of wrought gold. "Lady Catelyn was a very strong and able woman. I'll always remember that about her. She deserved a lot better than she got."

"Huh. I wonder what she'd have to say about you, should your roles be reversed." The look in Brynden's eye told Jon: _I didn't ask for your platitudes, but thanks all the same_.

"I'm not lying, Ser Brynden. I found her admirable, regardless of what she made of me."

Jon tried to inject a tone of finality in his statement and emphasised it by turning to the boat with the dead man slumped against the side. The deadweight made the vessel list to the right, one dead arm drooped over the side and the cold fingers dipped in the waters. He heard the arrow nocked, the twine creak as it was drawn back. Seconds later, a streak of flame flared and diffused in the freezing fog. It hit home with a whoosh of flame as the kindling took light.

"Will that do it?" Ser Brynden asked.

"Aye," said Jon, watching the fire build.

The boat picked up speed then hit a jutting rock.

"Oh, shit."

It jolted and listed again, before sinking slowly into the depths of the Tumblestone. Jon thought it mattered not a jot.

"The body was burning, that's the main thing," he assured the old knight.

Ser Brynden handed the longbow back to his squire. A real squire, and not Robb pretending to be a humble squire. Or cupbearer, or whatever he was masquerading as when the Tyrells first arrived at Riverrun. The thought of it still made Jon smile.

"From the Neck to the Blackwater Rush and beyond, this realm is littered with corpses," said Ser Brynden. "I don't see what difference one will make, should the wall fall down."

Jon shrugged, supposing he had a point. "I don't know about you, my lord, but I don't think becoming a meat puppet of the Great Other will bring about much improvement to Lord Baelish's temperament."

Sansa's warning returned to him once more: leave Petyr Baelish to his own devices and he'll end up the Great Other's second in command. Well, now even that slim hope had been denied him and Jon thought he could rest a little easier.

Together, the two of them made their way back into Riverrun. On the way, however, Jon addressed the elephant awaiting them in the room upon their return.

"I know she didn't like me and I don't blame her for it. But I didn't ask to be born and if I had, I wouldn't have chosen Lord Stark as a father just to spite her. Lady Stark and I, we were fighting on the same side, but she never could see that. I hoped I'd find you a little farther sighted than that."

Ser Brynden halted, turning to fix him with his wrinkled Tully eyes. Just like Catelyn; just like all the Tullys. After a moment, he gave a nod of his head, disturbing his iron grey hair.

"I know that, lad," he said, extending a hand toward him. The understanding met, Jon shook his hand. "If we linger out here any longer we'll freeze and if I'm going to freeze, I want a better reason for it than disposing of Petyr Baelish."

Jon laughed, touched his brow in a manner of salute. "Understood."

Back in the castle, the wedding breakfast to celebrate the newly weds was in full swing. Before joining them, Jon washed his hands and face, scrubbing away the last remnants of Petyr Baelish. Sansa, with Arya's full support, had wanted to send his head to Cersei with compliments of House Stark. While he couldn't deny the poetic justice it would have brought, common sense had had to prevail. Besides, last they heard Cersei was locked up. For her own good or the good of the people, Jon no longer cared.

He was starving and the smell of frying bacon drifted up from the Great Hall. Right now, it was a prospect far more enticing than talking politics. And Robb and Margaery were already there, waiting for him to join them. His new sister by law looked radiant, smiling brightly as she poured him a cup of small ale, handing to him as he took his place.

"Arya tells me you have Theon Greyjoy in the dungeons," said Jon, breaking the promise he made to himself about no politics. Truth was, he was just plain curious about this. "Why isn't he dead yet?"

Robb swallowed a mouthful of ale, then took a moment to measure a reply. "It was my inclination to kill him the minute I realised who he was. But what would that achieve?"

"Justice," Jon retorted. "I'd have thought that was obvious."

"Yes, but we also need Moat Cailin and Theon can deliver it," Robb continued, measured and calm. "I know you've always misliked him, Jon. I-"

"Robb, this about what he did to our family, not my boyhood grudges," he cut in. "Oh, leave it. Here's Sam and Gilly now."

He waved them over before helping himself to bacon and sausage from a nearby platter. Fresh bread and butter was close at hand, which he also availed himself off. Burying the dead was hungry work, he found.

"We march out today," said Robb, as if Jon might have forgotten.

"I know, I'm looking forward to it, aren't you?" he replied. "You know, I almost deserted the Night's Watch when I heard you'd marched south for father. Then, later, when I heard you'd been declared King in the North, I actually did try to run for it. Didn't I, Sam?"

Sam brightened at the memory. "Honour brought you back, though. That's what Old Mormont said."

Robb looked almost abashed. "And I thank you for it. It's the thought that counts."

Jon wondered for a moment. Had he abandoned the Night's Watch to join Robb, he'd be lying dead at the Twins right now. Had Sansa fled King's Landing with the Hound, she too would be lying dead at the Twins. Or worse, a prisoner forced to marry one of Frey's hideous sons and bearing their offspring. Sometimes, fate really does know what's best. Now was their moment to shine.

"I'm thinking, I should go and scout out the Northern clans, see if we can't bring them over to our side," he said, after sating some hunger. "I advised the same to Stannis, but those clans would never desert the Starks. I could do it myself, if it's too dangerous for you to re-enter the North."

"I think it's an excellent idea," Robb concurred. However, there was something in his rigid demeanour and the look he exchanged with his wife, that suggested there was a  _'but'_  coming. "But, I think you should go on to Mereen."

Silence followed in which Jon's head reeled; a silence broken by his fork clattering against his plate.

"You recalled me so we could take back the North together," he said, quietly. "Now you're sending me to other side of the world."

"Hardly," said Robb exasperated. "Look, all this business with the undead armies… you said it yourself, this is the greater threat."

The look Robb and Margaery shared. Jon found himself wondering if this was her doing. Was she sending him away, just like the last Lady Stark always tried to do? The feeling shifted uncomfortably in his belly.

"Furthermore, I think Sansa should go with you."

Jon was aghast. After everything they went through, he was dispensing with Sansa too. It made sense, in one respect. Keep the heirs safe and away from the danger of war. They had already lost their brothers, so their sisters rose in dynastic value. All the same, it made Jon uncomfortable.

"I wonder what Sansa has to say to that?"

"Let's ask her," said Margaery. "But we need Daenerys, Jon. We need those dragons."

Before they could use any more of his own arguments against him, he called their sister over. Sansa was dining with Arya and Jeyne Poole, it was a rare sight to see the three of them getting on so well. A contrast offset by the disagreements brewing between Jon and Robb. Sansa looked up and waved at them, thinking his call was only a morning greeting. But she turned serious when he beckoned her over and she set down the honey comb she was using to cover her heel of bread.

Robb and Margaery moved up a little to make room for her, while explaining the situation. Sandor Clegane had followed her over and Jon wondered whether he would be joining them too. The brother of the man who dashed Daenerys' nephews brains out against a wall in Maegor's Holdfast. Jon was sure she'd love that.

"You know how to handle royalty," Robb was saying to their sister. "You're a different person to that child I remember. You know what you're doing."

She flushed at the high praise. "I'd be glad to do it. But, what about Arya?"

"A Stark in Winterfell," said Robb. "If we take the castle back and settle the North, I'll not be staying. I will go straight North again and reinforce the Night's Watch until Jon returns with Daenerys Targaryen. One of us must remain in Winterfell and Arya's our best bet since Bran and Rickon are probably dead. Jon, you would be wasted sitting in a castle while everyone else is fighting or negotiating."

That was dead right, Jon thought to himself. "I know. I just thought I would be with you when we liberated the castle. That's all."

The look of sadness in Robb's eyes was genuine. At least, Jon could see that. "We'll be with each other when we defeat the armies of the dead and the Great Other."

Silence fell again, with Sansa taking Gilly's baby and bouncing him on her knee. But it was clear she was deep in thought and not brooding on her own budding maternal instincts. Still with the baby in her arms, she looked from Jon to Robb again. "You're using Theon, aren't you, to negotiate with the Ironborn?"

"Aye," said Robb,

Jon still bridled at the thought of Theon living.

"Well then, we go as far as Moat Cailin with you," Sansa continued. "The two of you together can secure the North, ready for the invasion once Theon delivers you Cailin. You say you're going to use Theon to sue for peace with the Iron Islands, I say you go further: if Asha Greyjoy wants her brother in one piece, she must bring her ships to our cause. I suggest she brings Jon and I to Mereen, with the rest of her fleet, so we can return with Daenerys and whatever armies she's rallied around her."

Margaery nodded, smiling. "It makes sense, Robb. It's a good idea."

"Didn't we make the mistake of trusting the Greyjoys once before?" asked Jon, wondering whether they'd all lost their wits.

"But Theon will be our prisoner now," Sansa pointed out. "If Asha wants him back, she must cooperate and bring us her fleet. To sweeten the deal, we could even support her claim to the Seastone Chair. I mean, it's not like Theon can take it now, is it? Arya said he's been gelded and Balon died ages ago."

"If we support her claim to the Seastone Chair," said Margaery. "Then Asha must also agree to use the Iron fleet in the oncoming wars in the far north. And she must agree to cease and desist raiding the western shores."

"Agreed," said Robb.

"What about Daenerys?" asked Jon, still sceptical. "We're asking a lot of her, too. To just drop everything she's gained in Essos to come and relieve us. How do we know she even wants to come back to Westeros?"

"Oh, she's working toward a full-scale invasion," said Margaery, insistently. "If we send her the iron fleet, perhaps a few ships from White Harbour too, and I know the Redwynes will also help…"

Her offers ended there, leaving it to Robb to make his own.

"And tell her," he began, before faltering again. "Tell her, if she helps us, if she does this for us, I will give up my titles and bend the knee to her. I will swear fealty to her as my Queen"

"The Reach will follow suit," said Margaery.

"And the Vale," Sansa added. "I will speak with Lord Robert and finalise it. But he will bend the knee, even if I have to bend it for him."

"The Riverlands will not defy her, not when all their neighbours swear fealty," said Robb. "But my uncle Edmure is still a prisoner, he is the rightful lord and the decision is his to make."

"The Stormlands might hold out," said Margaery. "But if we defeat Stannis in the North, if we get Lady Shireen safely in our custody, they too will submit."

And, just like that, they stitched up the fate of the realm between them. Despite himself, he felt a flicker of curiosity about this Queen across the narrow sea. But always, the ominous shadow of Theon Greyjoy's treachery seemed to hover over them.

"You won't forgive him, will you?" said Jon, fixing Robb with a pointed look. "Not after everything he's done. Not after what he did to Bran and Rickon."

"Didn't Arya tell you?" he asked. "Theon says they're alive-"

"Yes, but that's only because he's trying to save his own skin, Robb," Jon cut in, frustrated. "Surely, you can see that? Gods, Sansa, talk sense into our brother."

"Robb knows that," Sansa assured him. "But Robb, even if Theon did not kill our brothers, he forced them out into hostile lands in the oncoming winter. He may as well have killed them with his own hand. Even if Asha does cooperate, it will make me sick to see Theon walk away with her, as if nothing happened."

Jon agreed with her, but kept his thoughts to himself. Meanwhile, Sansa handed little Sam back to Gilly, while big Sam stared at Jon with his jaw flapping.

"What is it, Sam?" asked Jon.

The other man had gone red in the face, his pale brown eyes wide and shining. Still, he made no sound but his jaw kept flapping. A thin trickle of sweat crawled down his temple. Everyone was looking at him now. Jon, Robb, Margaery, Sansa… all watching and waiting.

"Sam?" asked Jon, thinking something was seriously amiss. "Sam, what's wrong?"

"Your brothers," he choked, fighting for breath. "I'm so sorry, Jon. I should have told you. I should have told you as soon as I-"

"What!" Jon snapped. "If you know something tell me now."

"I saw them, Jon. They are still alive. They're both still alive. Bran's in the North and Rickon was taken to Skagos."

From there, the floodgates opened and the whole story spilled out. Gilly backed him up, confirming everything. They hadn't seen Rickon, Osha had already taken him to Skagos while Bran was heading into the northern wastes in search of something called a three-eyed crow.

Robb was askance. "Is he seriously only mentioning this now?"

"But I promised!" Sam whimpered.

Jon's knuckles whitened where he gripped a serrated-edged breadknife. Just for a second, he wanted to stick it right into his old friend's heart. But they were brothers; they'd pulled one another through the darkest days of their lives. It was that, and that alone, that stayed Jon's hand. Not that he would have killed the man, though. But a good smack in the mouth was tempting.

All the same, banishment sufficed. The time was coming anyway. They couldn't bring Gilly and the baby into a battle camp. "Go to Oldtown as planned, Sam. They're waiting for you. Come back with a chain and the knowledge of how to tame dragons and destroy the already dead."

Anger subsided and only sadness was left. A farewell more bitter than he could have anticipated.

* * *

Noon came and with it the tolling of the bells. The armies and trains formed up slowly, but stretched as far as Robb's eye could see. Both sides of the Tumblestone, all through the fields and cresting the distant southern hills, their war machine stretched out. He dug his spurs into his horse's flanks and rode the head of his vast forces.

Margaery was there already, flanked by Arya and Sansa. The day was cold, with snowfalls drifting intermittently from the North. Winter really had come, after all. Their House words were a promise, a threat and a statement of fact all rolled into one.

At the head of the procession riding out of Riverrun, Robb drew his horse to a halt beneath the direwolf banners now fluttering in the brisk wind. Jon was there already, waiting for him to catch up. The brothers smiled at each other, greeting each other with a nod.

"Already," said Jon. "This is it."

"It is, isn't it?" he agreed, smiling palely. "Now it begins."

The chains of the drawbridge creaked and groaned as they lowered, allowing the castle occupants to leave. Robb remembered Harwin bringing him back here, hidden in a cart of grain and so weak with fever he was likely to die. It felt like a lifetime ago. It almost made him nostalgic.

He didn't know how long he would be King in the North for. Not long. But that didn't matter. Nor did he know how his lords would react, knowing he had only reassumed the title so he could give it up again, to make a proud Valyrian Princess feel like she was accomplishing something. Margaery's tenacity made him smile as he found her among his sisters.

"Ride on." Jon leaned over and gently smacked the rump of Robb's horse, spurring it on through the gates.

Everyone else followed, their pace sedate. Robb's heart hammered in his chest, history weighed heavily on one shoulder, expectation on the other. He didn't know what lay beyond those curtain walls, but he was ready for it. Side by side, he and Jon rode under the portcullis and over the moat, out into the wide open Riverlands. Then, he paused and looked back over his shoulder, finding his two sisters.

"Come on, girls," he said. "Let's go home."

There was no argument from them. With one final glance at the turrets and barbican of Riverrun, he kicked his horse into a gallop. After him came the others: Jon, Arya, Sansa, Margaery… everyone. The bitter wind whipped colour into their cheeks, the horse's breath fogging in the cold air. They sped through the gates and out onto the roads beyond, faster and faster as the horses built speed, fanning out and following the Stark banners. Chasing destiny, with the direwolf of the North in proud flight once more.

* * *

The chamber door clicked shut, drowning out the noise of the city beyond the pyramid. Yet, Daenerys knew she was not alone. The shadows moved, swaying with the flicker of candlelight. The room seemed to breathe, to exhale the stored-up tension of a hot summer's day. Body as taught as a bowstring, she paused, poised for flight. Grey Worm and Ser Barristan were just a call away, but her tongue remained still, the breath caught in her throat.

Mute, she stood by the wall with her back pressed flat against the dark panelling. Waiting, waiting, until the dull glimmer of red lacquer caught her eye. The breath she didn't even realise she had been holding was released in a rush of air. Daenerys didn't know if she should be relieved or even more afraid as Quaithe stepped closer to her. That woman was shadow made flesh but, behind that mask, her eyes shone like starlight.

"Why have you come?" she asked, not expecting a straight answer.

"Soon comes the pale mare. After her the lion, the kraken and a little bird with a sapphire maid. With them, comes the white wolf. You must be ready for them, Daenerys Targaryen. Everything you ever wanted … it's closer than you think."

"You've come here to tease me with prophecies and visions," Daenerys replied, voice low but stronger than she felt. Her hand came to rest on the door knob, although she knew Quaithe had no need of doors and her men would not be able to see her. "You mock me."

"I tell you what I see," said Quaithe. "You must be ready for them."

Daenerys blinked and the shadowbinder was gone, the flickering of the candles marking her silent passage. She breathed freely, letting the warmth of the fire touch her cold limbs. Lions, krakens, little birds and white wolves – it meant little and less to her, with Mereen in open revolt. Ser Jorah would have known what it meant. Ser Jorah would have known what to do. But Ser Jorah was gone and her children languished underground, shackled and bound. She closed her eyes and felt ready only for bed and sweet oblivion only sleep could bring.


	21. Ninety Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And once again I forget to upload here. Sorry guys! Thanks for all your support, too. I really appreciate it.

Around the hips, under the left arm and over the right shoulder, Daenerys' handmaids wound the tokar she had so desperately wanted to ban. Violet silk, fringed with soft golden tassels carefully arranged to accentuate her hips and bust. Irri and Jhiqui stepped back to take in the effect. Her old Dothraki handmaidens knew how she felt about the garment of the slavers, but neither did they want to discourage this latest compromise. All the same, their smiles were forced and their expressions uncertain.

"It matches your eyes, Khaleesi," said Irri.

Jhiqui's head tilted to one side, a nervous soul searching for a compliment at risk of ruining the effect. After a pause that lasted a little too long, she plumped for: "The fabric is very beautiful, Khaleesi."

Daenerys sighed, raised her arms and let them fall limp at her sides again. A gesture heavy with resignation. "Admit it, it's awful."

"No, Khaleesi!" they chorused.

Besides being the garment of slavers, it felt awfully delicate. Like one false step and the whole ensemble would unravel, leaving her standing in the middle of the pyramid's throne room in nothing but her small clothes. She imagined herself standing there, at the top of the steps all regal and poised as she received her guests, only for the folds to slip and the whole thing pooling at her ankles before anyone even realised what was happening. The horror of it made her blush and giggle.

Meanwhile, the Green Grace watched from the far side of the room. She was a wise and lithe old lady of eighty years or more, but didn't look it. Only her eyes, Dany remembered, her green eyes were sad and full of ancient wisdom. It had been her who'd convinced her to don the tokar as a concession to her new people. After gesturing for Irri and Jhiqui to give them space, Daenerys approached the aged Ghiscari priestess.

"Well," she said, sweeping a forlorn left hand down her front. "Will this suffice? Am I wearing it right?"

"Like a true Lady of Old Ghis. No more a barbarian conqueror."

The ghost of Quaithe's voice echoed in Daenerys' head once more:  _'remember who you are, Daenerys Targaryen. The dragons know, do you?'_ She was neither a true lady of old Ghis, nor a barbarian conqueror. She was Daenerys of House Targaryen, born at Dragonstone during the great storm. Is this what Quaithe meant? That she should not be forced and moulded into something else? But she had to, for the sake peace in Mereen.

"I have granted another audience to Hizdahr zo Loraq," she said, lowering her voice. It was the seventh such audience, another petition to reopen the fighting pits. "This time, I hear, he is bringing company."

"You know my counsel."

Yes, that she did. Marry Hizdahr, become more like them. Bow to the old regime and slowly bend them to her will. How long would that take? She was young, but youth was not eternal and Westeros was waiting. Would Westeros want a Ghiscari King, like Hizdahr zo Loraq? Somehow, she thought not. And she couldn't keep marrying all these men just to appease every wounded lordling whose lands they felt she had taken.

A knock at her door drew her from her thoughts. When she turned to answer, the door opened to reveal Irri, back from the outer chamber.

"Ser Barristan Selmy," she announced.

Without a second thought, she nodded her ascent to let the old knight in and gestured for everyone else to leave, including the Green Grace. Yes, Dany knew her counsel. She had no need to hear it again. The old man paused, double-taking as he took in her new look.

"It does become you, your grace," he said. "The colour, you know, it- "

"Brings out my eyes," she finished for him. "That's what Irri said, but I still feel sullied by it."

He blushed, backing down like a chided child. "Forgive me, I understand this is hard for you."

"Oh, Ser Barristan, I don't mean to rebuke," she sighed, reaching for his own to show there was no hard feelings. "But come, let us walk in the gardens where we can talk freely."

She took a stride too long, tripped and almost fell over the hem of her tokar. But with an alacrity that belied his age, Barristan caught her and set her right again. To her relief, the tokar stayed put and she wasn't left clutching his surcoat in her small clothes. He even had the grace to wave away her hasty and meek thanks. She remembered the day she took Mereen and the sight of the slavers fleeing. They had tripped over their tokars, too. And Drogon had unleased his flame on them. Sometimes, she wished she had allowed him to burn every last one of them.

Reducing herself to small, steady steps she had seen others use, she and ser Barristan made their way into the open air. All the while, she couldn't escape the feeling she was waddling like a duck – a last humiliation bestowed by the slaver's customs.

"If I marry Hizdahr," she began once they reached the open space. "It doesn't have to be entirely on his terms, does it?"

"Of course not. Even in the best of circumstances, you would be considered a push-over if you did."

Hizdahr could make all the compromises in the world, she thought, and she still would not want to marry him.

"I think I will sue for ninety days of peace, then," she said, coming to a rest beside a perimeter wall. Outside, the city still seethed beneath it's early morning torpor. The Sons of the Harpy would have been chased away by the rising sun, but they grew bolder by the day. It wouldn't be long before they started attacking in broad daylight too. "Ninety days is a good start to build the foundations of peace, is it not?"

She looked up at Ser Barristan who'd come to a rest beside her. He didn't look happy. "He will want something in return. And you know what that is."

"The fighting pits," she sighed, closing her eyes and willing it all away. When she opened them again she laughed. "You know what Daario said? That I should marry Hizdahr and we could have our own Red Wedding, like the one in which the Northmen of Westeros were wiped out."

"Only we would never disgrace ourselves with such mindless slaughter," Ser Barristan retorted.

The note of genuine rebuke in his voice shamed her. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"

"It was a poor jest, your grace." When she maintained her sheepish silence, Barristan continued: "I didn't know Robb Stark. But I knew his father, Lord Eddard. I understand why you have no love for the man. Neither did I, after the Trident. But, believe it or not, he saved your life more than once. He could talk Robert down like no one else. That wine-seller, back in Vaes Dothrak, he resigned over that and risked his own neck in the process. It may not have been much, but he did what he could."

Whenever she imagined Lord Stark, he was a cold character made of flint – brittle and without feeling. She imagined his sons in much the same way, except smaller.

"Point taken," she said, quietly. "Telling off duly accepted."

She could see he was trying not to laugh, but he couldn't help it. He soon composed himself. "Now, let's say you marry this man. After ninety days, he could end the truce and you'd still be stuck with him. What then?"

"I don't know," she confessed. "He would have upheld his end of the bargain. But an annulment would be possible."

"Very well. But, if there is ninety days of peace, you know what else that means, don't you?" he asked.

Daenerys thought about it for a moment. "It means Hizdahr really is the one giving the Sons of the Harpy their orders."

"Precisely."

"But we make peace with our enemies, don't we?" she countered. The justification left a bitter taste in her mouth. "Oh, Ser Barristan, tell me other news? This wearies me and the day has only just begun."

The old man sagged, his gaze dropping away from her. "There have been a number of deaths reported in the city, your grace."

"The Sons of the Harpy," she said, bitterly.

"No," he replied. "Something altogether less discerning than them, I fear to report."

"Then what?"

"The pale mare, your grace. The bloody flux, as you might know it. It's ravaged the refugees at the gates of the city, then spread to the armies laying siege to Mereen. Now it's within the city walls, tearing through the slums where the populace is most densely packed. Even strong healthy men are falling prey to the pale mare."

Daenerys felt a chill that reached her very core. ' _Soon comes the pale mare…'_  Quaithe's voice returned to her, cold and distant. "And after her the lion, kraken, little bird and sapphire maid. With them comes the white wolf." The white wolf. It sounded so sinister it made her shiver.

"What was that, your grace?" he asked, frowning at her.

Daenerys hadn't even realised she had spoken the final part of Quaithe's prophecy aloud. She shook her head, trying to clear the fog in her mind. "Nothing. It is nothing. I think I should like to go back inside now."

She turned, but too quickly. One foot trod on the hem of her tokar, the other got caught up in the trapped fabric and she hit the stone path with a sharp bump that made her yelp with pain. Even Ser Barristan hadn't been quick enough to catch her that time.

* * *

The skies turned black with smoke from the burning farmhouse. Animals burned alive in their sheds, their shrieks and cries filling the air. The people who owned the farm had fled in only the clothes they stood up in, waving their arms to clear the smoke, to gasp a desperate lungful of clean air. To little avail. They were brought before Robb kneeling, their eyes swollen and red, streaming with tears from the smoke. Tears of grief for the loss of their home and all their years of hard work.

Over the shoulders of the kneeling people, Robb could see the handiwork of the Knights of the Vale, still blazing against the darkening skies. As he walked the line, he picked out the women and children, gave orders for them to be taken to safety. When only the men were left, Robb commanded the owner to show himself. He was reluctant, at first, for obvious reasons. But, when he was revealed, he was a man of some forty years. His face weather-beaten from working outdoors since he was a child, his eyes dull and dazed at the violence visited upon his home, his wife and his children.

"Your grace, I beg you- "

"How long have you been supplying House Frey?" Robb cut over his pleas.

"Only since the massacre, your grace," he stammered, dull eyes tracking Robb's progress as he paced the line. "We had no choice, we were told the Young Wolf was dead and House Tully fallen. I swear I tell it true."

Behind the kneeling farmer, the roof of a burning barn crashed inwards with an almighty crack. Seconds later, the noise subsided and even the dying animals were no longer heard. It was the most terrible silence Robb had ever heard. Only the stench of searing flesh filled the air.

"You are, and have always been, a land tenant of House Tully," Robb reminded him. "You serve the Tullys, you are bound to and at the command of House Tully. You know the penalty for breaking faith with your liege lord and, instead, serving the enemy."

From the corner of his eye, Robb watched the others shift in the shadows. The soldiers who'd put the land to the torch had already advanced north, toward the Twins. Others remained, still bearing flaming torches, hot with the promise of more to come.

"Your grace, I was a true and loyal man for old Lord Hoster of sacred memory," the kneeling man blurted. "But – but- "

"But if it wasn't me standing here, it would be some ferret-faced cunt with the twin towers on their tunic burning your holdfast down," Robb finished the sentence for him.

The farmer didn't contradict him, but Robb was no fool. Before the silence drew on too long, two women stepped into the clearing. He already knew who they were; their entrance onto the scene had already been planned. The kneeling man's eyes snapped to Sansa as she placed herself between them.

"Mercy, your grace. As the granddaughter of Lord Hoster Tully, I beg for mercy for this man."

"As your loyal Queen, in respect of the long-lasting love and friendship between the North and the Riverlands, I beg for mercy for this man."

Margaery moved to stand by Robb's side, bestowing a smile upon the reprieved farmer. It was always going to happen like this: find the ones who'd turned their backs on House Tully, scare them witless, then make an example of them before setting them free. None of that made Robb feel any better about burning people's homes to the ground.

For effect, he took a moment to consider the words of his wife and sister.

"Your wife and children will be taken care of," he announced. "But you will go to other farms and holdfasts and warn them of the dangers of serving House Frey. If they do not mend their ways, show them the ruins of your farm and tell them, if we are forced into persuading them ourselves, we will scorch their earth, slaughter their livestock and sow their fields with salt."

The kneeling man broke down, choking sobs wracking his body. "Thank you, your grace. Thank you, my ladies."

"Rise."

At Robb's command, he got back on his feet, stiff and sore from kneeling. As he backed away, he bowed repeatedly to all of them. Once out of sight, Robb felt a hand landing softly on his shoulder. It was Jon, ashen faced and more sombre than ever. Not far away, the kneeling man's home continued to burn, his last harvest destroyed. But, at least it wouldn't be feeding any Frey army.

He turned away, silent and sickened by his own actions, and strode back into the camp in search of his own tent. Jon's voice trailed after him, but he paid his brother no mind. It didn't take long. A five-minute walk over a damp field, where Ser Garlan awaited him at the edge of the camp. A city of tents that had appeared there over-night.

"Siege engines from the Reach are being transported by river to the Twins," he said, throwing an arm around Robb's shoulder. "We know their range, if we can get the distancing just right, I think we can achieve your little dream."

Finally, a reason to smile. Meanwhile, Jon had followed him inside the camp with Margaery and the others close behind.

"What little dream is this?" he asked, falling into step with Robb.

Although it had been decided he would not personally regain control of the lands north of the Trident, it had been unanimously agreed they would liberate the Riverlands from House Frey and put the Tullys back in control. Ser Brynden had once more been left behind at Riverrun to hold the garrison and receive fealty of houses that had turned their cloaks for the Freys. In an ideal world, however, he would bombard the Freys to a standstill, until they had no other option but to surrender and release their prisoners. He would much rather have Edmure at Riverrun and Ser Brynden at his side.

Before that, however, there was one more structural alteration he wished to make.

"Before we leave the Riverlands, brother, I want to tear that fucking bridge down," he explained, letting Jon enter the tent first. "We're on the right side of the river, this time. Whoever my great Uncle puts in charge of the Twins can rebuild it, but they must have no affiliation to the Freys at all."

Jon laughed, clapping him on the back. "More gratifying than burning down farms and holdfasts."

Robb's smile died, the cold sense of shame closing over him once more. "I meant what I said, though. Any of our men, Reach, Riverlands or the Vale, caught raping have a choice: the gallows or the wall."

Jon knew him too well, he sensed the fig-leaf of respectability he was trying to hide his destruction behind. "You've done what you had to do. If you let them be, they will carry on supplying the Frey army. We need to cut off as many of their supplies as possible."

Inside the tent, a brazier burned. Robb gravitated toward it, warming his hands that had gone numb with cold. So far, only a handful of farms and holdfasts had been put to the torch. He prayed it would be no more. Of less concern to his conscience were the Freys he had hanged. Every one of them they found, they lynched from the nearest tree. The swaying, blackening corpses lined the roads from Riverrun to the Green Fork.

If his conscience did trouble him, he only had to look into the waters of the Green Fork to salve the wound. The waters of that river were still heavily populated by rotting corpses dressed in the tattered liveries of House Stark, House Umber, House Manderly… All victims of the Red Wedding, left to rot in the waters, feeding the fish and unmourned by anyone. For every one of them he found, he wished he could hang a hundred Freys.

"Yes," he said, at length. "War makes savages of us all, we must do what we can."

* * *

With a little help from Jeyne, Sansa piled the furs on the back of a cart manned by a young Knight from the Reach. Ever since leaving Riverrun, they had been working night and day to get the treated fur pelts fashioned into useable cloaks. "These are to be distributed to the foot soldiers."

"Right you are, milady."

It was a concern shared by her brothers and the Queen. That the soldiers from the south, unused to winter conditions, would all freeze to death before they even reached the Neck. It was a seemingly impossible task, to clothe them all. But they pulled together, with Margaery helping when she could, to do their best.

However, that morning, she chose to stretch her legs a little before knuckling down again. With the Hound at her side, they walked the banks of the Green Fork as the camp got ready to move on. The day was bright, with no snowfalls forthcoming. But she knew that wouldn't last long. Nor was it much help, given the thick covering that still lay over the ground.

As they walked, she turned to him and smiled, thumbing at her own cloak.

"This is your old Kingsguard cloak," she said. "Do you remember? You left it behind the day you left. I dyed it green; I hope you don't mind."

The briefest flicker of a smile crossed his lips. "I thought I recognised it. I didn't think you would have kept it."

He touched her shoulder, remembering a time many would have said had been more honourable for Sandor Clegane. But they both knew better. He was no knight. He was far too honourable to be a knight.

"You keep it," he said. "You'll need it when you cross the seas to Mereen."

They both paused, letting Jayne walk ahead. For a long moment, they simply looked at each other. For the life of her, she could think of nothing particularly profound to say.

"I'll miss you," she said. "I wish you were coming with us."

Sandor chuckled, a rumble deep within his chest. "I don't think the dragon lady will take too kindly to a Clegane showing up in her city."

"But that was Gregor, not you," she protested. The look he gave her was one that said:  _'would you trust this face?_ '. She made no reply to the insinuation. Besides, he never did like fire. She drew a deep breath and continued: "I like Brienne, I really do. But you … you've been there since the beginning. All through King's Landing, and Joffrey…"

She trailed off into silence. Somewhere nearby, she heard a 'clack-clack-clack' of wood on wood, coming from the riverbank to her left.

"Aye," said Sandor. "And I'll be here when you get back, little bird."

He glanced over her left shoulder, to where the noise was coming from. A shrill cry rent the air, causing them both to frown. Sandor stepped around her, going to investigate what was happening. However, Sansa could see already.

Arya was standing, wooden sword in hand, down by the riverside. Sweet Robin was screaming at her, more angry than hurt. Sansa raised a hand to Sandor's chest, stilling him. She had almost forgotten: she asked Arya to help Sweet Robin herself.

It wasn't going well. Sweet Robin wasn't even holding his sword properly and when Arya blocked his moves, he cried out even though she never actually touched him. Then, it happened. Arya, fed up with her petulant cousin, had called the whole thing off and turned her back for just a split second. Robin jumped her, whacking her across the back of the shoulders with his sword and again at the back of her legs. Arya cried out with pain, caught completely at unawares.

"Little cunt!" Sandor snorted.

"Robin!" Sansa yelled, her voice carrying over the water.

He looked at her in alarm, then gave a piercing shriek. "Alayne! She hit me, Alayne! She hit me!"

Had she not been so furious, she would have been stunned by his blatant lie. Hitching her skirts above her ankles, she strode over to him and wrenched the sword from his hands and froze. She wanted to strike him and had to fight her own instincts. Instead, she threw the wooden sword to Arya and grabbed Robin's wrists to immobilise him.

"Arya," she snapped, nodding to the boy struggling against her grip.

"She hit me!" he yelled. "She hit- "

The protest was cut off as Arya whacked him back, getting him across the back of his thighs. His scream almost deafened her. She let go, but only to grip his head and force him to look at her.

"Robin! You have got to toughen up. You have got to learn to fight. You are not a sickly baby anymore, you're the lord of the Vale. Do you hear me?"

The screaming died to a whimper, his nose ran liquid snot that dribbled over the fingers of her kid gloves. "She hit me, Alayne."

"You hit her! And if you hit her again, she'll hit you back again." She released him, pushing him toward Sandor Clegane. "Take him back to camp."

Breathless, she stood on the stony riverbank and picked up Arya's fallen sword. Her face had become hot and flushed and now the moment of anger passed, the cold was making itself felt again. Meanwhile, Arya remained on the spot, watching her as if they didn't really know each other after all. It was then that she remembered a day, a long time ago, when a little girl practised her swords with a young butcher's boy. She remembered the spoiled little lordling who had ruined their fun, and the man who'd run the butcher's boy down.

Arya's smile was pale. "Better late than never."

Sansa almost laughed. "Did he hurt you?"

"No. But what a shit!"

Sansa actually did laugh. "He is, but it's not his fault. He was brought up like that."

Arya's cloak was spread out one the stones and they made themselves as comfortable as possible on it. They were so close, they were touching. Both of them watching the river flow past. They were so close to the spot, all those years ago, that Joff's sword could well still be somewhere in that river. Sansa tried to remember the name of it: lion's claw, lion's paw – something like that.

"I understand what you're trying to do for him," Arya spoke softly. "But I don't think it'll work …  _Alayne."_

They both dissolved into laughter. With memories of their unhappy past suddenly back in her mind, Sansa soon composed herself.

"What happened back there, with Mycah," she began. "I never meant for it to end that way."

Arya looked startled as she turned to look at her. "You remember his name."

Sansa nodded, missing the significance. "Yes, although I was drunk that day. Joffrey had given me strong wine, far more than we were ever allowed by father."

"So, you really couldn't remember anything?" Arya asked.

She shook her head. That day, when Mycah was killed, came to her in fits and starts. One minute they were walking, the next the wolf was attacking Joff. Everything in between was a blank.

"I really thought if I said I couldn't remember, I could get you out of trouble without making Joffrey appear foolish. These days, I think I'm better at compromising."

Arya was solemn. "It was Joffrey. It was always Joffrey. He gave the order."

"And now he's dead," she reminded her. The subject was closed; they had a future to consider as well as a past to bury. "Tell me true, does Robin show any promise?"

"None!" Arya pulled a face, before softening and continuing more gently. "I understand why you're doing this for him. You want him to be strong and brave; especially after Petyr and Aunt Lysa weakened him, using him as a puppet. But Sansa, he's weak. He never had a chance. He was never given a chance. And what you're doing for him now: it's too late."

"But he's lord of the Vale," she said, despairingly. "He's got to improve."

"He will never hold the Vale."

It was not what Sansa wanted to hear. "Then who?"

Arya looked at her, her grey eyes holding her hard and weighing her up. She looked Sansa up and down, without needing to really say anything. "I've seen the Knights of the Vale. They don't even bother with him. They go straight to you. When the great war comes, and the army of the dead – that Jon keeps talking about – do you think they'll give a damn about our cousin?"

A weight settled in Sansa's chest, heavy and cold. It felt like duty. "All the same, I would like you to keep trying with Robin. Teach him all you know and get help from Sandor. If only to keep him on our side until I return from Mereen."

To her relief, Arya nodded and grinned. "It'll take more than that weakling to defeat me, sister."

The camp was moving on, spreading north ready to begin an assault on the Twins. Sansa and Arya knew they had to run to keep up. Together, they rose from the stony riverbank and brushed themselves down. Before finding the road again, Arya's hand landed on Sansa's wrist, drawing her attention.

"I missed you," she said, hesitant as if speaking a foreign language. "And when you're in Mereen, I'll miss you again."

"And I, you," Sansa whispered, her emotions swelling.

No more needed saying. Not now. So Arya flung a fistful of mud at her, a gesture of warm sisterly affection in Arya's own style. She ran laughing into the wind; Sansa gave chase, breathless with laughter of her own.


	22. A Slice of the Pie

Heads on spikes lined the road to Winterfell. Staffs driven into the frozen earth, topped with blackened, shrivelled and sightless heads. Harwin drew back the curtain of the litter and flicked a hard crust of bread at a crow perched on one of Bolton's grisly trophies. It squawked at the shock of the impact, but soon flapped away in pursuit of the morsel. Just for a moment, he wondered who the head had been in life. A Stark? Ironborn? Some other poor sod who fell foul of the North's new regime? It was impossible to tell. The flaying knife, axe and decay had stripped what was left of their identity.

Opposite him, Lord Wyman Manderly beheld the scene through eyes misted with sorrow. He was a huge man. So large, he must have been making the litter-bearers lives a living hell. People who did not know him took him for a fool. Stannis Baratheon had been one such, branding him 'Lord Too Fat to Sit a Horse'. But Harwin had known Manderly for years. He put up the front of everyone's favourite fat Uncle, but beneath that veneer was a clever, cunning man. Only now, those shrewd eyes allowed themselves a moment of sorrow.

"If Ned Stark could see this now…" the Lord's sentence trailed off, no more needed to be said. If Ned Stark had a grave, he'd be turning in it so violently the rest of the castle would come crashing down around Bolton's ears. "I'm not a man to abandon myself to despair, Harwin. And we must steel ourselves for the mummer's farce that awaits us."

Deprived of Arya Stark, Ramsay Bolton had had to make do with a Frey bride. A granddaughter, or great-granddaughter, Harwin could barely remember. A girl of twelve, he'd been told. But that was no indication of her relationship to Lord Walder, that old goat was still rutting away well into his nineties. Whatever the case, they'd soon find out. Posing as Manderly's master of horse, he was finally making his way back to Winterfell under the pretence of attending the wedding with his master.

"I told Jon I'd be going straight back to Winterfell," he said, solemn as if he'd broken a formal promise. "I couldn't get anywhere near it."

"You did right by coming to me instead," Manderly insisted. "With the information you have, you're no good to anyone locked in a dungeon being flayed alive."

"Speaking of which, I left the bodies in an outhouse," said Harwin. "Did you get them?"

"I did and I am in your debt for the service you have done me and my family," Manderly replied. "My dear Wynafryd, in particular, is most grateful."

As a sop to the Lannisters and to secure the release of his son, Manderly had agreed to the betrothal of his granddaughter to Rhaegar Frey. Additionally, he agreed to the execution of Davos Seaworth. Only, while Ser Davos was imprisoned, a common criminal was executed in his place and the tarred head sent to Cersei. Cersei, even if she had known Ser Davos, would probably have been too drunk to notice the difference. But the ruse worked and Lord Manderly's son was returned home safe and sound. Then the old Lord had a little job for Harwin…

Rhaegar Frey, along with his kinsmen Jared and Symond, had left White Harbour to return to Winterfell. Plenty of witnesses saw their exit, but Harwin was waiting down the road with a sharp knife and a trick up his sleeve. Jared was first. He left the road to take a piss behind a tree. A swift attack from behind, the blade of Harwin's knife whispered through the flesh and sinew of his throat.  _That was for Catelyn Stark_ , he thought to himself as the hot blood spilled over his fingers. Soon, Symond came looking for his kinsman and met a similar fate. Rhaegar, he took in a fair fight.

While killing the Freys was perfectly understandable, insisting that the bodies be returned to White Harbour was not. If he didn't know any better, Harwin would think old Lord Manderly didn't trust him to do the job.

"Are you going to truss them up and present them to King Robb, when he returns?" he asked, fishing for information.

Manderly had a twinkle in his eye again. "Oh, I have every intention of presenting them. But not to King Robb."

Something about the old Lord's tone told him he would get no more, that he would have to wait for him to reveal his hand. In the meantime, Manderly chuckled deeply. "Imagine that simpering weasel wearing the name of that proud, brave dragon."

"Rhaegar?"

"Aye. Oh, I fought against him on the Trident. All the North did, for our Ned's sake. But that was a time when one respected even their enemies, Harwin. That's the thing about the Boltons and the Freys and the Lannisters. You can't even summon up a trace of respect for their low, dirty cunning ways." He paused and sighed, turning all misty-eyed again. "Ignore me, Harwin. I'm a sentimental old man hankering after a time that probably never even existed. Tonight, at the wedding feast, you will see I can stoop as low as them. Just you watch."

It promised to be interesting. But there were other matters of more interest yet.

"Do the Boltons know about Robb?" he asked.

Manderly was thoughtful for a moment. "If they do, there's not a hope in all the seven hells they'd tell me. Or any other Northern Lord they're currently subjugating. But, I wonder … I really do wonder. Roose was proudly declaring the betrothal between that bastard get of his and Lady Arya. Then, suddenly, the whole thing was off and Lady Arya never appeared. Then you turned up at White Harbour saying Arya was alive and well at Riverrun. Ser Brynden would sooner die than hand his niece over to her enemies."

"It wasn't the real Arya," said Harwin. "But if it was some fake, then why… Oh, what does it matter now? Their time is nearly done, my lord."

Every lord in the North was attending Ramsay Bolton's wedding. They'd be plotting their downfall under their very noses.

"I hear Frey rumours that the Tyrells have joined forces with Ser Brynden Tully," Manderly continued. "But no one said anything about Robb. I wouldn't put it past the Freys to lie to Roose and, if they have… then all the more to our advantage."

"So, it's true that the Tyrells have abandoned the Lannisters?"

The siege was only just starting when Harwin left the Riverlands.

"Yes, but they haven't left the Riverlands. I also hear from sources in the Vale that they too are crossing the country. If the Vale have entered the war, and if they've joined forces with the Tullys and King Robb, the day of reckoning for Bolton and Frey is close at hand."

"If that's common knowledge, then surely everyone else has realised Robb's still alive," said Harwin. "The Vale wouldn't cross the country just for the sake of the Blackfish."

"Ah, but Lysa you see," Manderly reasoned. "The Freys are saying it's Lysa who's ordered them to Riverrun. The Blackfish has always had one foot in the Riverlands and the other in the Vale. But then, I also hear rumours that Lysa is dead. I don't know what to believe anymore."

"And what about the Lord Commander?" asked Harwin. "Surely the Northern Lords find it strange that Lord Stark's bastard has suddenly left his post."

"They've noticed, but they barely care given everything else going on," Manderly answered. "Anyway, the Lord Commander sent out those letters regarding the dead marching on the wall. Most think he's gone mad and deserted his post and left it at that. I daresay he's reached Robb by now and will be on his way back."

Harwin could only pray that was the case. He could only pray that Robb got home soon and liberated them from the dual tyrannies of Bolton and Frey. The Lannisters can destroy themselves.

The corpses lining the road to Winterfell thickened in number. On the approach to Winterfell's curtain wall, they were welcomed by whole flayed men, their bones and sinew exposed to the freezing northern winds. Wyman Manderly regarded each one with intense sadness. "You're a Northman yourself, Harwin. You know what I said to Ser Davos is true. No matter how confused things are right now: one thing remains steadfast. The North remembers, Harwin. The North will remember all of this."

Manderly spoke to the flayed men more than to Harwin, but he got the message.

* * *

Less than a year ago, Robb would have leapt at the chance of leading such a daring mission. He had done it several times, most memorably at the Crag. But that was before the Red Wedding. Now, every military manoeuvre he made was done so with the voices of the thousands of dead nagging at the back of his mind. Caution, fear, nerves…

Meanwhile, outside his tent, the bombardment of the Twins had swung into motion. Siege engines and trebuchets were hurling great boulders at the curtain walls, the noise so deafening it reached the people assembled in the tent. And all he could do was lean against the table, rub his chin and agonise over what to do next. Defeat had made him thrice shy and he hated it.

Ser Garlan approached and placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke softly, as if coaxing a bashful bride down the aisle. "Your Grace, you won't be alone. And once you're back in the press of the battle, it will all come back to you. You know that."

It wasn't cowardice that stayed him, and Garlan knew that. It was the risk. The gambling of other men's lives, as he had in the past. He steeled himself, felt his hands curling tighter around the edge of the table as his old resolve returned to him. He was about to speak, when a young lad from the Vale pushed his way to the front of the assembled lords and ladies. Sansa stumbled aside and the lad stared at her and, Robb could have sworn it, he winked at her before drawing his sword with a flourish.

"I'll lead the mission, my lord," he said, brandishing his weapon. "In the name of the Princess!"

He glanced to his right to make sure Sansa was still looking at him, at least that was the impression Robb got. She was, but with daggers in her eyes. Robb shared her feelings.

"No, you won't," he said, deciding to ignore the romantic side of his outburst. "This is my army, and I'll lead it. You will join us and follow my command."

"Good," said Garlan, stiffly. "Now that's settled, on to business. The eastern tower is sustaining heavy damage. It won't be long until there's a hole wide enough for us to get through, but Frey has his bowmen lined up along the bridge to defend it. If we can get close enough, we can pick off the archers and cut down the fleeing enemy. And they will flee as the curtain walls crumble."

Robb was thoughtful for a second. "And by the time that's done, we should have our way into the eastern tower. Once we have that, the western tower will be severely compromised. But if we do take the eastern tower, we will need the bridge in tact to take the western. Also, once on that side of the river, we'll be in our own line of fire."

"True," Garlan agreed. "The bridge is stone, it can take a lot of punishment. But I say we give the order to suspend bombardment as soon as we're in place at the eastern banks. As for the rest, we'll have to dodge the big boulders flying at us. Stay well back from the walls themselves, just until we can signal for our men to turn the trebuchets exclusively to the western tower."

"The signal," said Robb. "There's cornfields and orchards lining the eastern tower walls. I say we burn them and use that at the signal for the direction of bombardment to alter."

They had a twenty-oar river barge to transport them across the Green Fork from their position on the western banks of the river. Sailing through the lines of fighting men, right down the middle, had been what worried Robb the most. They'd be coming under fire from both sides. However, Ser Garlan had already organised a shield wall to be fitting along both the barge's gunwales.

Before the meeting dispersed, Margaery stepped out from the small crowd and approached him with arms open. An embrace that was all too brief.

"Stay safe," she said, smiling ruefully. "I'll be waiting for you when you get back. So, just make sure you do."

He kissed her brow. "I will, I promise."

Outside, he found the bold knight errant from the Vale waiting for him. Up close, Robb could see he was young. He probably hadn't been knighted yet at all. His hair was blond, falling in curls and he had bright blue eyes. His silver fluted armour was draped in a full-length cloak bearing a sigil of red and white diamonds. Sheepish now, he didn't say anything but instead fell into step with Robb and Garlan as they rounded up their men and headed for the barge.

As they neared the front lines, the counterweight of a trebuchet dropped sharply and splashed into the river. The arm of the machine soared through the air, hurling its flaming missile right at the eastern tower of the Twins. It hit its target with a sharp crack, accompanied by the sound of masonry crashing into the river. He wondered where Walder Frey was now. Cowering behind his own daughters, no doubt.

Before long, they were sailing over the river to reach the eastern banks, all hunched over behind the shield wall. Arrows thudded into the shields, the head of one penetrating the oak just inches from Robb's ear. He cursed at the sight of it, but kept rowing. Each man at the oars would stop for nothing and no one, until they hit the opposite bank so hard the barge almost listed.

This was the most dangerous part. Getting from the barge, back on to dry land and into the cover of the woods. Just for a few brief seconds, they would be exposed. However, Robb was the first over the gunwale, leading the way with a shield he had pulled from the gunwale. He urged the others to do the same, if they hadn't brought their own.

Just as Garlan had predicted, the Frey's unpaid soldiers were already fleeing. Robb engaged them as soon as he was on dry land, drawing his sword and plunging it right into the heart of an enemy fighter. Similarly, Jon appeared at his side, his own fine weapon drawn and the ancient Valyrian steel glimmering in the light. It had been a while since Dark Sister had seen battle. She proved her worth by taking out two Freys with one stroke.

"There's more coming through the woods," Jon warned him.

By now, the Vale Knight with the red and white diamonds had caught them up. He too had his sword drawn and like Jon and Robb's, his was red with blood to the hilt.

"Took out one already!" he boasted as he passed into the trees.

"Who is that ass?" Jon asked, face screwed up with distaste.

Even if Robb had known, he wouldn't have had time to answer. A group of Freys, about forty or fifty of them came crashing down the path in an attempt to flee, only to run straight into Robb's path. They stalled, some falling over others in their haste to beat a retreat in the opposite direction. Only Robb gave chase, the others of his company following hot on his heels.

"Stand and fight, you craven weasels!" Robb bellowed at them.

"Normally, I'd baulk at killing retreating men," Jon snapped at no one in particular. "But I make an exception for retreating men who slaughtered honourable soldiers at their dinner."

He had a point, too. All too vividly, Robb remembered how they were disarmed and herded into a slaughter chamber. Now he was back at the spot where it happened and it felt like the Red Wedding happened only yesterday. He aimed a savage blow at the nearest soldier, cutting through his spine. Ser Garlan took care of another, while Jon took on two at once. They weren't running any more, they were fighting for their lives. Soon, Robb was engaging three, while fourth tried to stab him through the back.

"Robb, look out!" Jon yelled at him as another Frey died at his feet.

But the attacker was already dead, a sword sticking out through his mouth and fresh blood gushing down the twin towers stitched in his tunic. To Robb's mild chagrin, it was the red and white diamonds who'd saved his skin. The lad grinned as if he knew this was going to happen all along.

Meanwhile, they reached as close to the eastern tower as they dared get. Another boulder smashed into the curtain walls, sending down a thick shower of falling debris. Inside, people screamed and a body fell from the top, landing at the advancing northern army's feet. Robb paid it no mind as he ordered his archers to line up and start picking off the enemy currently defending the bridge.

"Burn the orchards!" Jon shouted over the din of crashing boulders and dying men. "Burn the cornfields!"

They'd arrived in the right place, but the curtain walls to the tower still held and now there were groups of archers firing on them from the murder holes and the top of the barbican. Another bolder, fired by the Tyrells, crashed into the barbican, killing several of them and buying them breathing space. But it was too dangerous. Some of the boulders passed so close, he felt the rush of the slipstream as they soared into their targets. All the while, retreating Frey soldiers fled, keeping Robb and his men busy in cutting them down.

Robb pulled back just as a vat of boiling oil was poured down on his men, five of them were dowsed in it and their screams filled the air around him. Three fell into the river, drowning in their armour. Another from the Vale was hit with an arrow below the gorget as he looked up at the murder holes, he died choking on his own blood. But reinforcements, led by Ser Loras Tyrell, were already on their way up the embankments. Another couple of hundred men, with more set to arrive at regular intervals.

Emboldened and angered in equal measure, Robb managed push past the defensive lines and out into cornfields.

"Burn it!" he shouted at the men who followed him. "Burn it all!"

He heard the sounds of several flints being struck, but the wet cornfields proved hard to ignite. They had better luck with the orchards and soon whole rows of trees were ablaze and turning the skies black with smoke. Leaving the fires to do their job, he returned to the front lines of the battle, where his men were finally breaching the curtain walls of the eastern tower. The longbowmen he positioned along the edges of the riverbanks made light work of picking off the enemy archers up on the bridge. Like dying flies, they fell from the bridge and hit the angry waters. If the arrows didn't kill them, the tides soon would.

Hours seemed to pass, or it could have been days for Robb lost all sense of time, but the reinforcements and the endless bombardment saw the eastern tower overwhelmed. The curtain wall shattered, ancient bricks crumbling away. Even when the bombardment turned away, aimed at the western tower instead, it was too late for those inside. The opening appeared and Robb was the first through the breach. Finally, the Twins had been penetrated and the assault on the bridge could begin. With Jon on his right and Garlan on his left, he kicked in the barbican gate, savouring the feeling of shattering wood and falling iron bands. Fleeing soldiers had lowered the drawbridge, granting the invaders ease of access. Now they had control.

* * *

Margaery had been in battles before, but this felt different. There was more at stake. The very future was at stake. So, she paced and paced and paced…

"You're wearing a hole in that rug," Olenna pointed out, sharply. "Oh, dear, do sit down."

"I can't," Margaery insisted.

Arya was outside, teaching Sweet Robin to tell one end of a sword from another. Sansa was serene at her needlework and Jeyne sat in a corner, furtive and nervous. Margaery tried to join them, but whenever she relaxed a crash or a scream would come from the battle and she would be back on her feet with her heart in her throat. It was no good. So, she paced and chewed the nail of her index finger.

Sick with nerves, she pushed her way out through the tent flap once more to take in the sights and sounds of death and destruction. It was darkening now, but the horizon was aglow with fire. Dark against that glow, the Twins still stood, but only just. The eastern tower was jagged and ablaze, the bridge a hive of thick fighting. From the top of the steep hill they had camped on, she could see it all. The trebuchets were dark and sinister against the skies, she even could see the occasional boulder still being hurled at their enemy.

Somewhere, in the thick of all that, was the man she loved. And that was what the difference was, this time around. Before, she worried for Garlan and Loras. They had her heart. But now Robb. And the fighting: it had been going on all day and they had heard nothing since early afternoon, when Robb had managed to burn the orchards to send signal of their advance.

"He won't lose."

Sansa's voice drew Margaery from her troublesome thoughts. She turned and found her sister-by-law standing in the awning of their pavilion tent. Close by, Arya continued to beat up her cousin.

"I just wish we had some news."

Sansa nodded. "I know." She too looked out over the horizon, to where the battle continued against the onset of night. A pale hand came to a rest over her heart. "There's someone coming now … Oh, gods! It's him."

"Who?" she asked, puzzled.

She saw the cloak of red and white diamonds and realised who she meant. He paused before the women and swept an elegant bow.

"What news?" Margaery demanded, with no time for knightly courtesy now.

Nearby, the sword fighting came to an abrupt halt. The man knelt in the wet ground, holding out his hands palm up. A large set of rusty keys rested there.

"Your Grace. My Princess. The Twins are yours."

"And the King?"

"Noble and dignified in his triumph, your grace."

Margaery gasped so hard it was almost a scream of relief, her knees buckled but Sansa and Arya caught her.

The man rose, showing his blood smeared face. "Once the eastern tower was taken, the King himself valiantly led his men across the bridge, fighting back the Freys as he went. As they reached the western tower, what was left of the Freys forces turned heel and ran, only to be met by your grace's brother as they made their retreat. Ser Loras, leading a host of nearly one thousand, took them easily and stormed the tower, meeting the King half way. I am to escort you there now."

Margaery took the keys to the Twins and kissed them, tasting the mud and sweat on her lips. But she did not care. Her old resolve returned to her, stiffening her back to her feet.

"Come, ladies," she said. "Looks like we're leaving."

A light drizzle was falling, but Margaery was unconcerned. However, the same could not be said of their gallant messenger. He swept off his cloak and held it over Sansa's head, declaring loudly: "not a drop of these rough, rude rains would dare touch the head of my princess!"

Sansa looked mortified, Margaery tried not to laugh and Arya made an exaggerated retching sound. But it was Sweet Robin who saved the day: "Oh, hello Harry," he said, casually. "How's your bastard daughter? Has the next one been born yet? You know, the one you're having with that other woman."

Harry turned red in the face, while Arya looked wide eyed at her cousin and burst out laughing. Sansa casually stepped out from under the cloak, leaving him standing there still holding it over an invisible person's head. "I think we'll be all right, Harry. Thanks all the same."

Margaery looked back over her shoulder. "Make sure my grandmother arrives safely, won't you?"

* * *

The wedding guests fell silent as Lord Manderly's gifts were brought out on silver platters. Three huge meat pies, baked to perfection. Their golden crusts shimmered in the light of a thousand candles. Seated in the lower benches, Harwin watched in dawning comprehension as they were laid before the bride and groom, one by one. The smell of them filled the air. Rich and warm. Even Roose Bolton raised a smile as he drank a toast to old Lord Walder Frey, who sadly couldn't make it to his sweet granddaughter's wedding.

Servants bearing deadly sharp knives cut into the first of the offerings, plating up generous slices of meat pie. The juices ran out, clear and succulent. Ramsay Bolton licked his fat lips as he bit into a slice. Aenys Frey dug right in and Harwin almost cringed. He was Rhaegar Frey's father, if he had his facts right. Here, the old quite literally ate the young.

Meanwhile, Roose was still on his feet and he raised his cup to Lord Manderly. "I thank you, my lord, for this delicious pie. Let us be friends from here forth and forever share the others bounty."

Manderly smiled and raised his cup back. "Forever, my lord. Savour every mouthful."

The pies made their way down the aisles of trestle tables. Before he knew it, a servant girl was standing at his shoulder.

"A slice of pie, ser?" she asked, waving it under his nose.

The flesh inside was pink and soft, still smelling of the herbs it had been boiled in. For a second, Harwin looked at it as if he might recognise some Frey-like features in the dead meat. He found he had no appetite.

"I think I've eaten enough," he said. "Thanks all the same."

Manderly then met Harwin's gaze from across the room and smiled a benevolent smile as he raised his cup to him. Harwin returned the gesture, smiling crookedly. All around him, the lords and ladies devoured the pies, washing it down with fine red wine. In his head, he drank a toast of his own. To Robb Stark, the King in the North, wherever he was that night.

* * *

Far away, down in the Riverlands, the fields still burned. Inside the western tower, Robb stood behind the high wooden chair of a bald old man. Famed for his sharp tongue, Lord Walder seemed quite lost for words tonight. He flinched as Robb leaned in close, almost to kissing distance.

"I heard you've been looking for me," he said. "I don't like to keep an old friend waiting."

The toothless mouth flapped open and closed, emitting foul smelling breath. That was exactly how Robb remembered him looking the last time they met before the massacre. His stupid, toothless mouth flapping like a landed fish; white lips as shrivelled and puckered as a dead cat's arse.

"Do it then," Walder snapped, rigid in his seat. "What are you waiting for? Do it!"

"If it please you." He ran the blade over the old man's throat, watching listlessly as the blood sprayed out over the white linen table cloth. Once dead, Robb shoved him forward, his head hitting the table with a dull thump.

Movement from the shadows caught his attention, but he knew it was only Jon. He felt his brother's hand at his elbow, leading him away. "It's done," he said. "But there's still a long way to go." Prisoners. Robb was dimly aware of the prisoners.

* * *


	23. The Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm resurrecting a dream Dany had in the books for this chapter, with just a few tweaks to the original. Anyway, it's taken from Storm of Swords part I, Daenerys III.
> 
> Also, in keeping with the books, Greatjon Umber is still alive while his son, Smalljon Umber, is among the dead.

A tangle of streams and a lattice work of wide, rushing rivers cut through the thick of snows covering the Riverlands. Sparkling blue on white, it looked so pretty. From Drogon's back, Daenerys could look over his shoulder and see it all rolled out below her. A panorama of river, snow, hill and forest. She had never seen it before, but she knew what it was and she knew where she was going. From west to east, where the Blue, Red and Green Forks all merged to form the clashing currents of the Trident, where her brother awaited her return.

The Usurper's host was amassed on the riverbank. They bore no banners, but she knew who they were: Baratheon, Stark, Tully and Arryn. All armoured in ice, they were harder to see than the last time, but she saw their blue eyes shining like burning stars. And none could hide from Drogon's fires as the flames dowsed them. The banks of the Trident swelled, washing over the scene as she awoke with a start.

The feeling of exultation dissipated fast as the chamber reformed itself around her and she found herself firmly back in Mereen. Pre-dawn gloom filtered through the shutters, the furniture around her reduced to dark and featureless shapes surrounding her. Briefly, she wondered where Drogon is now. Had he made it to the Riverlands, like in her dreams? Would he be there still, waiting for her on the off-chance she ever made it out of this damnable city? Sometimes, she envied him.

It was too early to get out of bed without having people looking at her like she was a mad woman, so she lay there until the first rays of sun pierced the gaps in the shutters. Tokar on, she slipped her feet into some comfortable sandals and let Irri braid her hair. It was past her shoulders now, recovering well from the birth of the dragons, when it had all been singed away.

All the while, she thought about the dream she'd had. The first time she had it, riding the dragon had been the key feature that stayed with her. Drogon had been small back then, the prospect of flying him for real was a dim and distant prospect. Now that time was fast approaching and she could barely think where time went. This time, however, it was different and she needed Ser Barristan.

"Do Westerosi soldiers wear a special armour that looks like ice?" she asked the veteran knight, later that morning. The question felt a foolish one, but that was how it appeared in her dream.

"Ice, your grace?" he repeated, suitably perplexed.

They were on their way to the audience chamber of the pyramid, taking their time as was their wont. As they went, she tried to think of the right words to describe what she saw in the dream. It cannot have been literal ice. Ice would just melt or crack as soon as a sword touched it.

"Like, decoration, I suppose," she said, brow creasing. "Something that would make armour look like ice."

"Not in all my years have I heard of such a thing, my lady," he said, letting her down gently. "Why do you ask?"

She told him about the dream and the usurpers host all armoured in ice, with their shining blue eyes. It was strange, because the Riverlands looked so real only to be populated by these fantastical soldiers that she seemed to have plucked out of the depths of her unconscious imagination. But, Ser Barristan only smiled and assured her a dream is nothing more than just a dream. The human mind's way of teasing us, even when we're trying to get some sleep.

"Anyway, you'll be pleased to know that no new cases of dysentery have been reported in the last full day," he continued.

Daenerys breathed a sigh of relief. "Let us hope the pale mare has been stopped in her tracks."

"Quite," he replied. He opened his mouth to say more, but stopped and placed one hand on the pommel of his sword instead. Only then did he continue: "There is a petitioner waiting already- "

"Hizdahr, at this hour?" she groaned. "I haven't even broken my fast yet."

"Actually, no," he replied. "Ser Jorah, your grace…"

Dany felt a fist close over her heart at the sound of his name, the pain of it drowning out the rest of Ser Barristan's sentence.

"I told him he I would have his head should he return to Mereen," she blurted, already knowing she could never enact the sentence. "Why has he returned? Does he mean to test me? Did he not believe me?"

She didn't even believe herself. Nor did she know what made her more angry: Jorah's apparent impudence, or her own vacillating heart. To take him back would only be exposing her weakness. To send him away again would only bring her more sorrow.

But Ser Barristan seemed more forgiving. "It would be prudent to at least hear him out. See what he has for you. I think you might be interested."

Daenerys was silent for a moment, hesitating before jumping on the lifeline he threw her. "What is it?"

"A lion, of sorts."

"A lion?" she repeated, her brow creased in a frown.

"Tyrion Lannister, no less. It's the real thing, too. They say he murdered his nephew, King Joffrey."

Quaithe's voice echoed in her memory once more:  _"first comes the pale mare and after her the lion…"_  Who would come next? The Kraken, the Sapphire Maid and the little bird. With them comes the White Wolf. A piece of the puzzle slid into place. Her torment subsided fast, replaced with a cold shiver of foretelling.

* * *

An open circlet of hammered bronze, engraved all around with the runes of the first men and decorated with spikes in the fashion of longswords. Robb didn't recognise it at first. It was just a dull, tarnished glimmer among the rubble of the eastern tower. He wondered how it got there, and why the Freys didn't just toss it away as soon as the massacre was done. Looking back, he could have sworn they hammered it to Grey Wind's head. But he should have known a Lord as rapacious as Walder Frey would not so easily part with a crown. Not any crown. Especially one as troublesome as his. Maybe it was more a trophy than a crown.

He knelt down and extricated it carefully from beneath the fallen bricks and rafter beams. It was never exactly pretty. The very nature of its creation was a hurried and make-do affair, since the original Northern crown had long since rusted its way into the pages of forgotten history. One of the nine miniature long swords were slightly bent, probably where a block had hit it. The bronze was scraped and grazed, the circlet now dented. It looked like any old piece of discarded junk.

"Robb."

He was about to toss the old crown away again when Sansa's voice drew him from his thoughts. Looking up from where he still knelt, he found her standing over him bearing a cup of hot mead. Kneeling beside him, she gave him the mead.

"Is that yours?" she asked, spotting the battered crown in his hands.

"The armourer at Riverrun made it," he answered, shaking off the dust. "It doesn't much look like a crown."

"Yes, it does," Sansa insisted.

"Not a proper crown," he said, smiling. "You wouldn't have approved."

He meant it as a jest, but Sansa wasn't laughing. She took the crown from him and ran the pad of her thumb along one of the dented miniature longswords. "Maybe not. But it's a crown that tells its own story. Everyone should approve of that."

He saw what she meant. Every dent and scratch and warped angle displayed the wars they'd been through to get where they were now. It wore his victories and tribulations as much as he did. But it wasn't just the crown that had taken a battering during his long campaign. Every victory he scored was a black-eye for Sansa, a kicking from the kingsguard, a bust lip and limbs left black and blue. Only the Hound refused to do it. Only the Imp could put a final stop to it. He, Robb, had been the cause of it.

"Margaery told me what they did," he said, at length. "Joffrey, I mean. After the battles."

She looked away, her eyes unfocused as she blotted out the memories. "It wasn't so very bad and Joffrey rarely let them touch my face."

"It was bad," he insisted, inwardly flinching against her efforts to cushion him from the worst of the abuse she suffered. "I would have come for you; I would have made them pay for what they did."

Sansa smiled, for a moment showing the sweet innocent she had once been. "The beatings only happened because you were winning and they were scared out of their wits. I understood that, and I was laughing inside."

He took the mead she had brought him and led them over to the high table, overlooking the now damaged common hall. Avoiding the seat once occupied by Lord Walder Frey, he took the one next to it, where his wife might have sat. For a moment, he imagined what it must have been like to be Walder Frey that night, watching the massacre unfold as if it were a mummer's play. His eyes combed the eaves, where the terrible musicians played their discordant Reynes of Castamere as all hell broke loose below them. He found the spot where he and Talisa sat, he shifted his gaze to the servant's door where he slipped away into the courtyards moments before it all began.

When he looked down at the wooden floorboards, he still expected to see the bloodstains seeped into the grain. Whoever cleaned up afterwards, they'd clearly done a good job. The only blood stain left now was that of old Lord Walder, where Robb had finished him just hours before.

"Robb." Sansa touched his face, gently turning him back to face her. "We mustn't stay here; it does you no good to dwell on it."

"I can't just leave it," he protested.

"Lord Tytos Blackwood has flown the direwolf sigil above Raventree Hall all through the war and even after the red wedding, the direwolf flies there still," she said. "You are no longer his King, you've relinquished your claim to the lands north of the Trident. Reward his steadfast loyalty with the Twins. Leave the bridge in tact and let them use the money gained from the tolls to rebuild the Riverlands."

It was such a neat solution, he knew he had to consider it. Now that old Walder was dead, the line of succession was a muddled affair. Lord Stevron had died at Oxcross. After him, Ryman Frey was supposed to inherit, but he died during the previous day's fighting. Robb himself hanged Black Walder Frey just a few hours ago, alongside Edwyn Frey and Petyr Pimple Frey. Aegon Frey was a dull-witted fool dressed in motley and Robb learned his own mother, Catelyn, had cut his throat before she was killed by Black Walder. After them, who was supposed to inherit the Twins was anyone's guess. Besides, it didn't much matter, Robb had taken the castle and it was technically his now.

"I'll send for Lord Tytos," he said. "But I daresay he'll be on his way already. The scouts have informed me that Jason Mallister is free- "

"Oh ho!" a booming voice cut through the hall, right down the middle of Robb's sentence. "That was a jolly stirring that almost woke me from my slumber last night. I thought the gods had sent a storm to alight the old weasel but no…a wolf pup ranging in the night, I do believe. "

Startled, both Robb and Sansa whipped around in their seats toward the sound of the booming giant. Relief wash over him, a smile lit up his face as he found Greatjon Umber, massive and imposing as ever despite imprisonment, filling up the doorway behind the dais.

"Well, Lord Umber, only you could sleep through a battle of that magnitude," Robb retorted, getting to his feet. He closed the gap between them, letting the giant of a man pull him into a bearhug as tight as a blacksmith's vice. He was breathless by the time Greatjon let him go.

Joining them at the table on the dais, Lord Umber threw himself down in old Lord Walder's seat and paused to behold the old man's blood still staining the table. He held up his hand, indicating for silence, gaze still firmly fixed on the blood. Robb was wondering what he was doing, a frown marring his brow.

"Here, my lady," he said to Sansa. "Dab a bit of this behind your ears. No perfume so sweet as the blood o'the Freys."

Sansa still had the crown. The crown that Greatjon had first bestowed on him.

While Greatjon's strength, inner and outer, had carried him through his spell of imprisonment almost undiminished, the same could not have been said of Edmure. He was brought to Robb with his heavily pregnant wife at his side. He was gaunt and grey-faced, his blue eyes dimmed after months kept in poor light. His clothing hung from him, his face caked in dirt.

Margaery had appeared by now and she rushed to find a useable chair for Roslyn, who stood before Robb quaking and terrified. She sat down in it, one arm curled under the vast expanse of her belly, supporting the baby inside.

"You knew about the massacre," Robb stated, plainly.

"It was beyond her control," Edmure answered before he could get a word in.

"I was speaking to Lady Tully," Robb curtly informed him before repeating the question.

The girl nodded her head, white with fear. She was white with fear when he last saw her and he began to wonder whether all Freys kept the same facial expressions on all occasions. But all Robb could do was sigh deeply.

"I'm not in the habit of hanging women," he said. "Never mind ones pregnant with mine own kinsman. I hear my uncle is content with the marriage, so you remain Lady of Riverrun. If you feel you're up to the journey, you're free to go there with him. If not, you're free to remain here until the infant is born and only travel when sufficiently recovered."

"I'd sooner deliver my baby by the roadside than at the Twins," she answered, growing more confident now. "And I thank you, your grace."

"We have a litter you may use to make your journey more comfortable," said Margaery. "Is there anything else? Don't be afraid to ask anything of us."

Roslyn swallowed, her pale blue eyes darting between all the faces looking down at her from the dais. Robb, Jon, Margaery, Sansa and Greatjon Umber. She seemed to baulk again, before rallying herself. "Your Grace, I know you march on the North where my cousin, Lady Walda, acts as Lady of Winterfell- "

"Not now, Roslyn," Edmure whispered in her ear.

"Uncle, let her speak."

Roslyn recovered from the interruption, returning her gaze to Robb in a direct appeal. "Lady Walda is married to Lord Bolton, but she had no say in the marriage and no say in Lord Bolton's actions. Now she carries his child and I beg of you to show mercy to them."

"She's pregnant?" said Robb, shuddering inwardly at the thought of a half-Frey half-Bolton future Lord of the Dreadfort.

"She is not so far gone as I and I fear she may be carrying still when the battle for Winterfell begins."

Robb was quiet for a moment, considering what could be done. His father was the first person to spring into his thoughts and he knew what old Lord Eddard would have done. All the same, he wished to confer with the others.

"Lady Walda cannot be made to suffer for her husband or her family's actions. But we can't let that child grow up resenting us. If it's a boy, Margaery, I say we foster him and raise him as our own. In the meantime, Lady Walda can live at the Dreadfort, protecting her son's inheritance."

"By the time we're done with the Boltons, there'll be no one else to inherit even if it is a girl," said Jon.

"That's true," said Margaery. "The child, boy or girl, should be raised at Winterfell alongside our own – the gods willing – and we will end this enmity between House Stark and House Bolton for good."

"And formalise the truce between our houses with a marriage," said Sansa. "Marry the child to one of your own. A younger one, that won't be needed at Winterfell."

Their poor child hadn't even been conceived yet and Robb couldn't help but think life had already delivered it a raw deal. All the same, it seemed the sensible thing to do and gave his agreement. Roslyn, who'd been listening in to their small conference, looked pink cheeked with relief.

"Thank you, your grace."

Robb waved her gratitude away, relieved that the most urgent business of the Twins was already concluded. Outside, early morning sunshine was breaking over the Riverlands and he had not slept a wink. None of them had. All around him were pale faces, dark ringed eyes and the air heavy with stifled yawns. He rose to his feet, light-headed with sleepiness. "I say we get some rest and ride on to the Neck at Dawn."

His declaration was met with a murmur of approval. But as they all filtered out of the hall, following the maester who'd prepared some rooms for them, Brienne of Tarth lingered behind. She stepped out of the shadows, removing her sword belt. Having seen the action, Jon returned to Robb's side, one hand on Dark Sister as if Brienne might cut Robb down at any second.

"I tried to find time to talk with you," she said. "About this."

Robb took the sword belt from her. Assuming she wasn't trying to show him the actual belt, he drew the sword he'd heard her call Oathkeeper. It was a stunning blade. Valyrian steel, all grey ripples and swirls, intermingled with a strange scarlet colour. The gold pommel was embossed with the lion of House Lannister. Only, House Lannister was known to have lost their Valyrian sword in the smoking sea. Tywin had been raging about it for as long as anyone could remember.

"Ice," he said, his heart sinking into his boots.

Beside him, Jon looked like he might vomit.

"Ser Jaime gave it to me to defend your sister," she said solemnly. "That was his exact command: to find Lady Sansa and bring her to safety, using her father's own sword to defend her."

"That's something, I suppose," said Jon. "Robb, get the armourer here to change the pommel. Anything to get that fucking lion off it."

Robb heard him but made no reply. "Where's the rest of it? Ice was much bigger than this."

"Ice was reforged into two blades," she said. "One for Jaime and another for Joffrey. The other is still in King's Landing. Ser Jaime doesn't want it back."

He knew it was Ice, the sword he'd seen his father wear every day of his life. A huge monster of a blade worn strapped to his back. It was a ceremonial sword, more than anything. Not one a soldier could take into battle. But it was the very essence of House Stark, the oldest treasure of their house. And now it looked as foreign to him as something from another world.

"Ser Jaime commanded you to use this blade to defend a Stark?" he repeated, dumbly.

"He swore an oath to your Lady Mother," she explained. "That he would return to King's Landing and free both of her daughters and I would be the one to escort them home. Only, by the time we reached King's Landing, the red wedding had happened and Lady Catelyn was dead. We believed you were, too. Sansa had fled after Joffrey's murder and Arya was never there in the first place, although Petyr Baelish swore she was. All the same, Ser Jaime swore to keep his oath to your mother."

"Oathkeeper. So, he called it Oathkeeper," said Robb, turning the blade over in his hands. The balance was perfect, the steel just as beautiful. But it still felt wrong. "I had my mother arrested for treason after she freed Ser Jaime. We called her fool and traitor for believing him. But he meant it all along."

Jon's hand came to a rest on his shoulder, a reassuring gesture of comfort. "Robb, just change the pommel for now and it'll be like having Ice back. She's yours, not Jaime Lannister's, no matter what he did."

"I know, brother," he replied. "But perhaps, Brienne, you should still honour Ser Jaime's command and continue protecting Sansa with her father's blade in Mereen."

He handed the sword back to her, pommel first. But Brienne refused to take it. "I think perhaps, your grace, the onus is now on you to take back your ancestral home with your ancestral sword."

"If you don't, so help me, I'll smack you around the head myself," Jon sighed. "And if you're going north of the Wall, you'll need Valyrian steel."

Robb still hesitated. "The truth is, I still don't feel worthy – ouch!"

Jon made good on his promise and smacked him around the back of the head.

"That was undignified."

"Yet wholly justified. Thank you, Brienne, Robb's very grateful to you for returning his sword."

Just for a moment, the normally stony-faced Maid of the Sapphire Isle looked like she might be about to laugh. Salt in the wounds for Robb if he ever did need it.

* * *

The bodies of the Freys swayed in the river breeze. Sansa had to duck under them to get out of the portcullis, all the same Back Walder's dangling foot brushed the top of her head. The feeling of it made her shudder. According to the others, ones they had taken prisoner, Black Walder was the one who planned the whole wedding. No one, it seemed, was prepared to waste any tears on him. Least of all her.

"Hey, Sansa!" Arya's voice rang out across the yard as soon as she appeared. "Come and see the new horses."

It was late in the afternoon, but they'd soon be riding out again and this time they weren't stopping until they reached the Neck. Meanwhile, they were helping themselves to the Frey's resources. The grain sheds had been emptied, the armoury was being plundered by some knights of the Vale and the Reach, and Arya – always a natural horsewoman – was selecting some fine specimens from the stables.

"This white charger is perfect for you," she said, gesturing to the horse. "She has a sweet temperament, too."

Unlike her sister, Sansa had never been great with the animals. But Arya had found her a beauty. Already saddled, she swung up and took the reins. The horse barely flinched at her weight.

"She's perfect, shall we ride out? The others will follow soon."

Arya nodded and mounted the chestnut palfrey she had selected for herself. "Let's invite Jon?"

Sansa looked around, finally locating their brother alongside Robb and Margaery. "He looks busy with that man they're talking to."

"That man. Don't you recognise him?"

Taking the hint that she should, she narrowed her eyes to see him better. White hair, skinny and shivering violently. He was dressed in fetid rags, but was being stripped by the maester and Robb was hauling a barrel of water toward him. By the look of the poor victim, it'd be a mercy to drown him in it.

"Wait," said Sansa, turning back to Arya. "Is that … Is that Theon Greyjoy?"

"Yes, we told you he was … different."

Margaery walked away just as Theon was stripped. Naked as his nameday, Sansa felt her stomach turn when she saw the ruin of his genitals. Gelded and flayed, he squealed as the maester dunked him in the water to wash off the matted filth that coated his skin. Even Jon looked moved to pity, for all his earlier rage at Theon's continued existence.

"You're not Reek, you're Theon Greyjoy," Robb was scolding him. "Stop this madness."

"Sansa, come on. Let's go."

She hesitated. "Robb, leave him to the maesters and come with us. We're going for a ride. And you, Jon."

Brienne emerged from the armoury with a new sword in her belt. To Sansa's relief, Oathkeeper now hung from Robb's hip, new pommel and all. It was a plain pommel, but infinitely prettier than that lion. The Hound was there, already mounted on Stranger. To her infinite joy, Harry the Heir inserted himself between her and Brienne, beaming brightly at them both.

"You weren't going to leave me behind, were you?"

"I wouldn't dream of it," she replied, flatly.

He blew her a kiss as the riding party formed up, earning himself a death glare from Brienne. They all formed a line, bringing their hunting bows and hawks with them in hope of a little game, and rode out together into the advancing afternoon.

As they went, their chatter was easy and light. Their first major victory had been scored and they felt free. The snows had eased off, the groundcover almost melted away. Although they knew it would not last. It was only when they were a half-mile from the Twins that the mood changed.

"Strangers," said Jon, gesturing into the distance.

"I see them too," said Arya.

Sansa could see that it was a large group, and clearly armed to boot. However, they flew no banners. Robb moved his destrier to her side, shielding her. Harry drew his sword, just as Jon drew Dark Sister. Brienne and the Hound moved to either side of Arya. All the while, the oncoming strangers drew closer and closer. They had a dog with them. She could hear him barking as he bounded through the snow and tall grass. One of them called out a greeting.

"Seven blessings! We come in peace."

Robb frowned, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Well, I'll be damned."

"Do you know him?" asked Jon, still holding Dark Sister at the ready.

"Why yes," said Robb. "I think I do. Sheath your weapons, everyone."

They were a ragged looking band. A Septon with the dog. A man with an eye-patch and faded cloak. A priest dressed all in red she recognised from a long time ago. A strong, burly looking lad with jet black hair and sparkling blue eyes. He reminded her strongly of King Robert. It was Arya who spoke next.

"Gendry!"

The black-haired lad beamed at her. "M'lady!"

She dismounted and ran up to him and they briefly hugged each other. He drew something from his belt, a long and thin blade sheathed in a black scabbard. Arya took it and looked at it in wonder.

"We found it in Harrenhal, and I had to bring it back to you."

"Needle!" said Arya, eyes misty with emotion. She drew the blade, finding it as perfect as she always remembered.

Robb dismounted next, approaching the Septon with considerably more caution. For a moment, the two of them looked at each other.

"It's good to see you again, Septon Meribald."

"Well, well, Robb Stark," said the Septon, smiling knowingly. "I thought it might be you."

Robb was blushing, dropping his gaze coyly. "I suppose there's a special place in hell for those who lie to humble, wandering Septons."

The dog barked and rushed up to greet Robb like an old friend.

"The seven forgave me and I'm certain they can forgive you," replied the Septon. He was a kindly man and jovial, despite his grim work. Sansa realised he was the one who saved Robb's life after he escaped the Twins. "But fallen no more and very much marching back to victory. I wish you all the best in the wars to come, Robb Stark."

They clasped each other's hands, before embracing as the dog barked in loud approval. When they parted again, Robb raised a rueful smile. "We're leaving the Riverlands now, Septon. Our wars, here at least, are done. We will never trouble you again. Lord Tytos Blackwood will take the Twins and I'll make sure you always have a friend in him."

"May the gods bless you, your grace," said Meribald, touching Robb's brow as if anointing him with invisible oil. "And see you safe on your journey home."

Robb looked rather choked as the septon gave his blessings again. But it was the man in the faded cloak who spoke next. Belatedly, Sansa realised it was Beric Dondarrion. The same Lord from the Storm Lands that Jeyne had found so handsome.

"Your grace," he said. "Thoros and I have read the fires and seen the storm gathering beyond the wall. We, the Brotherhood Without Banners, are coming with you."

"Gendry?" said Arya, hope filling her eyes.

"Me too, little lady."

"And you, Septon?" asked Robb.

Meribald shook his head. "I come as far as the Neck, but my place is here in the Riverlands."

"Well, if ever you do come North," said Robb. "There is meat, mead, a warm bed and a warmer welcome awaiting you in the halls of Winterfell. Always."

"Much appreciated, your grace. But, before you go, I believe we have one last parting gift."

The huddled of men parted, revealing another who'd been previously concealed from view. A collective intake of breath greeted the sight of Jaime Lannister in their midst.

 


	24. The Gates to the North

From the Twins to the southernmost point of the Neck, the ground grew softer and marshier. In the Neck properly, it was all bogs, swamps and sucking sands that could swallow a destrier in a matter of seconds. A distressing event Margaery saw happen with her own two eyes on more than one occasion. What was worse, the owners of the horses who tried to rescue their distressed animals, only to be sucked down with them. Hidden danger surrounded them, keeping them subdued as they worked all night and day to traverse the notorious wetlands.

She could see the causeway Robb had built when he came south, wending its way over the black muds and stagnant swamp waters. But melting snow, aided by heavy rainfalls, had swollen the water levels and swallowed great swathes of the Northman's causeway since it was built. By necessity, they stopped every few yards to rebuild it and allow their own vast army safe passage.

This was, by far, the most difficult and arduous part of the journey. On bad days, they advanced only a few yards and had to set up camp again only meters from where they had last set up camp. The land itself was grim, with withered black trees louring over their path and blotting out what little sunlight reached the home of the Crannogmen. They themselves were small, about the size of children, and they darted through the darkened undergrowth as swift and dextrous as cats. However, they were rarely seen and if they were seen, it was usually too late and they were already melting back into their terrain. Had she been foe and not flying the banners of House Stark, she was sure she'd have half a hundred poison darts sticking inside her by now.

"It will get easier," Robb promised her, one night. "The land will start to even out, soon the road will open up and we can all spread out again."

Wary of sounding like a southern pansy, she wore her brave face. "I know, but I can handle it. It's really not so bad here."

"But you look so pale, and Jeyne mentioned that you had been unwell," he replied. "Why did you not tell me?"

"Because I had no desire to worry you over nothing."

The next day, when they were on the move again, she proved her point by falling into a dead faint. She didn't know what came over her, and Jon caught her before she hit the ground. But she spent the rest of the day being carried in a sedan chair normally used by her grandmother, whom they had left at the Twins as a guest of Tytos Blackwood. She would follow them only once the causeway had been made safe. It was embarrassing, but Robb insisted.

As they progressed, she found herself in the company of Theon Greyjoy. He'd been set to work hammering new planks into the causeway in places where they had rotted away. While Jon was unhappy with the decision, she saw Robb's reasoning. Set the Ironborn's mind to a task, keep him busy and start encouraging him to assert himself more, as once he would have done naturally. Make him feel part of a team again.

"This is your one shot at redemption. You know that, don't you?" she said. She was back on her own feet again, slowly walking the length of the causeway and inspecting the repairs.

"I'll never be redeemed."

"You won't if you don't try for it. If you do this for Robb, if you deliver him Moat Cailin, you could win back all you lost." Margaery paused, remembering the sight of his gelded, flayed body and quickly clarified her statement: "In the material sense, at least. Some things cannot be returned, of course."

As far as confidence boosting went, she thought she was doing a poor job of it by reminding him of his unfortunate state. She quickly changed tack: "We contacted your sister before leaving the Twins and she's agreed to meet with us when she comes for the Ironborn inside Moat Cailin."

A spark of hope briefly flashed in his dull, grey eyes. "She can do it. Asha can get the castle."

"Yes, she could," Margaery replied. "But we would have to pay her, we would have to give her a deal and land and titles and the blood of our firstborn son. Whereas you are going to do this thing out of the kindness of what's left of your heart. Understood?"

Hope died as soon as it arrived. "But if I fail, if they kill me…"

"In that case, I suppose we'll have no choice but to strike a deal with your sister instead," Margaery ceded. "But let's hope it doesn't come to that … for your sake, as well as ours."

She hadn't meant to be snippy with him, but nor was she willing to be so indulgent of his defeatist babble. Unless people were willing to help themselves, there was little others could do to help them. Before they parted company so he could get back to work, Margaery looked him up and down, just one question played on her mind. "Theon, why did you do it? Did you hate the Starks?"

He answered so plainly it was almost disarming. "I did it because I wanted to be the Starks."

Not long after that, Robb's promise made good. The ground grew a little firmer, the causeway opened onto a dirt road that gradually widened. The trees spaced out, allowing natural light back into their world. And, in the distance, the black basalt towers of Moat Cailin rose on the horizon. Ringed by snow-capped hills ringing the Rills, flattening out to the east where the land sloped downwards into White Harbour and evenly dotted with freshwater lakes. From atop a chestnut courser, Margaery savoured her first sight of the North and committed every detail to memory.

"Welcome home, your grace."

At the sound of Ser Jaime's voice, she sighed inwardly. She turned in the saddle to find him right behind her, mounted on a white charger. Still clad in his familiar golden armour, he looked like something from a story book, even with the obviously fake hand.

"Does Robb know you're on the loose?" she asked. "He paid good money to get you back, and I doubt he wishes to lose you again."

"Ask him yourself, he's only down the causeway." He nodded toward the point he meant, where Robb and Jon were deep in conversation with a Crannogman. Meanwhile, he nudged his horse forwards so they were level with each other. "Don't worry about Tommen, by the way, he's just fine."

"Someone needs to worry about him," she mused. "It's not like you ever have."

"I won't contradict you."

"Are my cousins still prisoners of the Faith?" Sometimes, it felt like everyone else had forgotten Elinor and Megga. But she hadn't and thought of them daily.

"There's nothing I can do- "

"That's not what I'm asking," she cut in. "Anyway, never mind that. Cersei brought this upon herself, surely you can see that. She pushed us out of the capital and then locked up our kin thinking she could get to the rest of us. Well, that's not how alliances work; we aren't supposed to knife each other the second our backs are turned."

When she got no reply, she looked at him and met his gaze. Going by the look on his face, he understood all too well what she was saying.

* * *

Robb may have been home, but he knew he wasn't safe. He could see Moat Cailin, the ruins of its twenty towers jutting from the surface of the water, and the kraken banners still hanging from its ramparts. They all wanted him dead. The Bolton men that had already been seen across the Rills all wanted him dead. To the west lay Barrowton, where the Dustins and the Ryswells all wanted him dead. Dead for real, this time. Should it come to a retreat, the only viable escape route he had was south again and hope they made through the Neck. He could chance White Harbour, hoping the Manderlys held true and Lord Wyman could get him on a ship bound for somewhere safe … wherever safety was, these days.

But, before the retreat, he had to advance. A strip of white cloth had been tied to a pole and was now clutched in the hands of Theon Greyjoy. Several of his fingers had been cut off at the second knuckle, one or two were gone entirely, making his grip on the peace banner tenuous at best.

"Take my horse," he said to the Ironborn. "Remember: Ramsay lied to them. He would have massacred them all had they yielded to him. House Stark honours its promises and they will be allowed to leave in peace."

Theon stammered some reply, only to be cut off by Margaery. "I say we send him in with fresh food and clean water. I've seen the dead outside the castle, it seems those inside are starving to death."

Every supply cart and reinforcement the Iron Islands sent was being attacked by the Crannogmen, assisted by the remnants of the Northern Army led by Hallis Mollen and Maege Mormont. Small wonder they were trapped inside, unable to get out and left starving. Hopefully, it would make life easier for him.

"Of course," he replied. "Just be quick about it, I want that castle taken by the end of today."

Leaving others to deal with the relief effort, Robb returned to the front line. Jon was there waiting for him, looking worried and pale. "If Theon fails, he dies, right?"

Robb's hand found the pommel of his sword, gripping it for surety. "A hundred times, yes."

Close behind, the armies of the Vale and the Reach were still making their way up through the Neck. Robb wanted to be inside Moat Cailin long before most of them got here, to avoid a pile up of men being densely packed into what was still dangerous ground. Inside the ruins, there would be room for them all and a good vantage point to patrol the hills.

Meanwhile, Jon was about to say something but seemingly changed his mind. "Lannister's coming. I think I'll leave you to it."

"No, don't!" he cried. But Jon was already going, looking back over his shoulder only to smirk and leaving his brother in the shit.

Reluctantly, Robb turned to face their esteemed guest.

"You paid all that money to buy me back off the Brotherhood, and spent every hour of every day since avoiding me," said Jaime, coming to a rest at Robb's side.

"It's easy to be open handed with someone else's gold," replied Robb. "Especially when it once belonged to Walder Frey."

Lannister didn't seriously think Robb had paid with his own coin? He didn't have any, for a start. Not far away, Theon took up his peace banner again and was starting the ride to Moat Cailin. Just for a second, Robb wished him well.

"And I thought I had a hard time since leaving the North," said Jaime, also watching the Ironborn twitching on a destrier. He raised his golden hand, showing it to Robb. It looked clunky, heavy and utterly useless. "It's nothing compared to what happened to him."

Robb felt strangely defensive, although he knew he wasn't being accused. "I had no knowledge of what was being done to him."

"I wouldn't have blamed you, even if you did."

"All the same, Ser Jaime, I would rather not have Ramsay Bolton at liberty to do the same to anyone else," he replied, still tracking Theon's progress. The promised carts containing food were close behind him now, another had a barrel of clean water onboard.

"I had no part in that wedding- "

"If I had a gold coin for every time I heard those words, I'd be able to sink the Iron Bank," Robb interjected. "You know, that's how people greet me these days: ' _I had no part in that wedding'_. I know you didn't and I know they didn't. I know who did and most of them are swinging by the neck from the ramparts of the Twins. Why are you here, Ser Jaime? Why are you talking to me?"

There was a moment of silence between them in which Jaime leaned against the wooden balustrade, his green eyes still on Moat Cailin. Surely, he knew by now the southern forces – what was left of them – would not be able to reach the north soon. Theon was already crossing the drawbridge, those in charge of the food supplies going in after him. Even now, they were almost out of sight. If all went to plan, it would be minutes before Robb had the gateway to the north back in his hands.

"Cersei sent me away," he said, sombrely. "She sent me to the Riverlands to try and drag the Tyrells back to the capital. At Harrenhal, I got a letter from her begging me to come back because the Faith had locked her up."

"Why didn't you?"

Silence again, Jaime was deep in thought. "Because I hate her. So, I burned the letter and continued trying to put right the chaos her madness has caused."

"They know what she did to King Robert, your own cousin confirmed it. They know she's been fucking you, they know about the children. Are you afraid you'll be arrested too?"

"No!" Jaime snapped the answer, affronted at the thinly veiled accusation of cowardice. He drew a deep breath and soon regained his composure. "While she's locked up she's unable to do any more damage to this realm. It gives me time to try and make peace with whoever's left. And, if I am honest, when I found out you were alive I was somewhat … deterred."

"And then you were captured by the Brotherhood at Harrenhal," said Robb, allowing himself a smile. "The Freys are gone, Ser Jaime. My uncle, Lord Edmure, is Lord of the Riverlands now. Your uncle, Emmon Frey, is dead. Your aunt, Genna, has been given safe passage to Casterly Rock. Brienne said Cleos is dead, too. What happens to your other Frey cousins is up to you, but I don't think Edmure will be in any mood to restore the Twins to them."

Jaime sighed in defeat. "I wouldn't have expected him to. And House Lannister is in no position to launch an attack on the Riverlands, not now Cersei has ruined our alliance with House Tyrell. And the Vale, they've declared for House Stark too?"

Robb nodded. "I don't want to involve the North in another assault on the south. But if I hear my uncle is under siege from House Lannister, or his lands are being raided along the western borders, I will."

"So, if you take back the North, you'll leave your forces here and not come south?" he asked. "This will be an end to it?"

"If you stay away from the Riverlands, we'll stay out of the south," Robb confirmed. "I can't offer you more than that."

"You're still calling yourself King in the North?"

"I doubt any Northern Lord will bend the knee to Cersei," said Robb. "Or Tommen. Nor any other Lannister. If, as you say, you want hostilities to end, you will leave us be. There's another war coming, one that threatens this whole realm: The North as well as the south. While I've been fighting over the North and you've been fighting over that ugly iron chair, an army's been marching on the Wall. Once I have Winterfell back, that's where I'm going."

Over Jaime's shoulder, Robb watched as the kraken banners fell from the towers of Moat Cailin. Seconds later, another appeared: the snarling direwolf of House Stark. A cheer rose from the crowds amassed at the mouth of the Neck, turning to jeers as the defeated Ironborn began trailing out of the gates. Some were so weakened with illness and hunger they had to be carried out.

Jaime hadn't noticed. His attention was all on Robb. "What army?"

Robb hardly cared whether Jaime believed him or not, so he just came out with it. "White Walkers, raising an army of the dead to march on the wall. Even if the wall holds, the Night's Watch informs me they'll soon find a way around it. If that happens, we're all royally fucked."

"You're madder than my sister if you believe that."

"You've met my brother, he's Lord Commander. He's seen it and he wouldn't lie about it. The Night's Watch let him go, on condition he return with an army of the living at his back. The Maester wrote to me about it ages ago. Another watchman came south to King's Landing with the arm of a wight to show the King. It was Tyrion who dealt with it, didn't he say anything?"

Jaime said nothing, but he wasn't quite so dismissive now. Crowds of soldiers were swarming past them, advancing on Moat Cailin led by the Lords of the Vale and the Reach. All the while, Robb and Jaime remained where they were, staring each other down as if the knight was waiting for the punchline.

When he did speak again, he changed the subject entirely. "It seems you have your castle back."

Robb allowed himself a smile. "It seems I do."

Next stop would be Winterfell, he realised with a thrill of apprehension. And the gods old and new help Roose Bolton.

* * *

There was only one usable tower in Moat Cailin, so they weren't exactly spoiled for choice when it came down to where they hosted their guests. However, the common hall was large enough to seat two hundred and hadn't suffered unduly at the hands of the recently evicted Ironborn. The walls were good and solid, standing firm and keeping out the draughts. Besides, Jon knew Lord Manderly would know what to expect long before he saw the place. And he was there now, clapping Robb on the back so hard he almost knocked him over.

Although it had been two days since they'd taken Moat Cailin, Jon was still surprised by the speed at which Manderly had arrived from White Harbour – it was as if the wily old Lord knew they were coming long in advance. Then, the day after Manderly, Asha Greyjoy arrived and Jon's heart sank just a little. Her arrival meant it was almost time for him to leave, if all went to plan. Part of him hoped it wouldn't, that he would have to stay and fight for Winterfell alongside his brother.

With utmost curiosity, he watched as Asha was presented to Robb, then Sansa and Arya. Only Margaery was absent, in with the maester that had come to treat her illness. Greetings were exchanged and even Jon shook her hand when Robb gestured for him to join their group. Finally, Theon was brought out amidst hasty explanations as to how he came to be in the state she found him now.

Just for a moment, the reunited siblings just looked at each other. Asha's expression hardened, registering something Jon took for disgust. He and Robb exchanged a worried look and he knew they were thinking the same thing. What would they do with Theon if Asha rejected him? But, even as that thought crossed Jon's mind, she touched Theon's face with a gentleness that took him by surprise. Although the touch lasted for just a fleeting moment, Asha soon remembered where she was and what was happening.

"Our uncle, Euron, has been named King of the Iron Islands," she said, looking around each of them. "If either of us show our faces there, he'll kill us both."

"But you still have your own ships," said Robb. "They were spotted sailing into Ironman's Bay."

"Euron will be building more as we speak."

Robb shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "What are his plans?"

Jon could see from the look in his eye that he feared what Euron would mean for the North. And Jon well understood it. Any raiding along the Stony Shore was bad news for the them and now they'd released several captives into Euron's care, if he had guessed it right. He listened to Asha's answer carefully.

"He says he wants to sail to Mereen and wed the Dragon Queen."

"Daenerys?" said Sansa. "Why would she marry him, unless he's bringing his new fleet so she can land in Westeros and they can rule together."

"We need to reach her first." It was Theon who spoke, to Jon's mild surprise. Winning back Moat Cailin for the Starks seemed to have restored some old confidence back to him. Whether that was a good or bad thing, Jon was still undecided. "If we get to her first, we can bring her back. We need her, don't we Robb? That's what you said."

There was a moment of silence in which Robb weighed up the options. Euron was a factor none of them had anticipated. "Our plan was to have you, in return for Theon, sail my brother and sister to Mereen to win an alliance with Queen Daenerys- "

"I'm going there anyway," Asha stated, perking up. "I'll be glad to take your brother and sister."

Sansa looked to Jon, giving him a nod of encouragement.

"We need to get moving soon," said Jon. "If Euron's rebuilding his fleet, then we have no time to lose. It'll take us months to sail around the southern coast."

Another moment of silence fell, during which Lord Manderly rose from his seat and moved to Robb's side. He was looking at Asha intently, as if wondering how best to skewer her. "I have twenty ships in port, built for his grace, the King in the North. If he so commands it, I will lend my fleet. But first, I beg leave to state my terms."

Robb nodded. "Name your terms, my lord. We had not expected this act of generosity."

"In return for the Ironborn completely withdrawing from the North and then never troubling our shores again, nor setting foot on our lands, I agree to let you use my ships and sail for Mereen from White Harbour."

"Seabitch is docked on the west coast," said Asha. "But I can have my second in command sail her, so long as we wait in Mereen and don't leave without her."

Jon nodded. "I can live with that. Gives us more time to work on Daenerys."

"Theon can go with you," said Robb. "But he's in the custody of Jon and Sansa until you fulfil your promise and bring Daenerys back to Westeros."

The agreement reached, Jon let himself slip away from the meeting and gestured for Sansa to follow him. Outside the tower, they stood on the hilltop overlooking the Neck. Dusk was settling and they already knew a company of soldiers had been seen approaching from the North. Whether they were expecting to find Ironmen or Starks, they were not sure. All the same, they took down the direwolf banners just to give them a surprise.

"Are you ready for this?" he asked, taking a seat on an old basalt stone.

Sansa hesitated before replying. "I think so. Brienne seems sad about leaving Ser Jaime behind, but I think it'll be all right."

"I truly hope she hasn't told Jaime where she's going and why."

"No," Sansa assured him. "She wouldn't do that. Anyway, aren't you in the least bit curious to see the dragons?"

Jon grinned and stifled a laugh. "Poor Daenerys. The last Targaryen and all people are interested in is her dragons."

He had to admit it, though. He was more than a little curious.

* * *

The Maester's hands were cold and callused. Rough skin scraping against Margaery's belly, prodding here and there. It wasn't exactly pleasant, but she endured in silence for the sake of the answer she was hoping to get. "When did you last bleed?"

"The week before my wedding," she said, struggling to be more precise. "It must be three or four months by now."

"Yes," the man agreed as if he already knew. "And any changes with your breasts?"

She misliked the line of questioning, but knew it had to be done. "Swollen and tender. That's a sign, isn't it?"

Seemingly satisfied now, the Maester withdrew his hands and replaced the linen shift she wore. "I think it's a certainty," he concluded. "Your grace is with child. Congratulations."

Relief washed over her, carried on a tide of sheer exhilaration. "How long?"

"If you haven't bled since before the wedding day, I'd say the wedding night is a good indicator for the moment of conception," the Maester replied, smiling kindly. "Another five months, but your sickness and fainting fits should pass long before then."

"That's a relief," she laughed, easing herself up off the bed. She nodded for him to leave. "Thank you, Maester."

Alone in the room, she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders to ward off the chills. One hand pressed into her belly, still flat for now although it wouldn't be long. This child, she was determined, would be born in Winterfell, where they belonged.


	25. Honest to a Fault

"We really shouldn't be doing this." Margaery returned his kiss all the same. Nor did she protest as Robb reached to unlace her gown, or pick it up again as it slid to the floor and pooled at their feet. He felt her arms reaching around his bare chest, her palms flat against his back, holding him close to her as they kissed again. "The maesters say it's not good for the baby."

Maesters! What did they know? Fusty old men gathered at the citadel, turning grey and gathering dust as they debated the things real people actually did. Robb could guarantee not one of them had ever been pregnant or given birth in their lives. He told as much to Margaery and the sound of her laughter made his heart lift.

As with everything these days, the triumph came shrouded in caution. He'd been in this place before: on the verge of a major triumph, newly wed and with a child on the way – only to lose it all on the turn of a hair. Inside his head, he had to pause his swirling thoughts and tell himself he now had something else to fight for. Something that would secure their future.

They made love on the only useable bed in Moat Cailin. Old and musty, stained from Ironborn abuse and damp to the touch. If one thing was bad for the baby, it was remaining in the ruins of Moat Cailin. One they were finished, he held her close, both as naked as their name days.

"I'll write to Lord Manderly, he'll let you stay in White Harbour until this campaign is done."

She had been dozing off, but snapped to attention quickly. "What for?"

"For the baby," he replied. "It'll be more comfortable than a battle camp."

Margaery hesitated, her expression troubled. "My place is with you, wherever that is. I'm not just being sentimental. How are your Lords to take a southern Queen seriously if she spends their darkest hour hiding behind castle walls?"

"They'll understand," he assured her. "There's no need to make things needlessly difficult for yourself just to prove a point."

"All the same, I'm staying with you."

Regardless of the assurances he gave her, a part of him was pleased. And when they rose again, to rejoin the others outside, he felt the campaign once more sliding into place. As Ser Loras placed a hand on his arm to get his attention and spoke low in his ear: "Lord Howland Reed to see you, your grace."

Margaery was the only other person who'd heard what was said. She turned to look at them both, frowning. "I was beginning to think he was invisible. You better receive him in the common hall."

They needed to advance, to meet the threat coming down from the Rills. He wanted to get his wife and his army out of these bogs. All the same, he was curious and allowed Ser Loras to lead him back into the ruins of the fortress. An empty, cavernous place that echoed every breeze that whistled through the stones and smelled like the swamp waters seeping into the roots of the turrets and towers.

When Loras held open the hall door for him, soon after Lord Reed's arrival had been announced, he could see the man alone in there with only a wooden casket for company. It was set up on a trellis table in the middle of the hall, shrouded in a direwolf banner. A shaft of pale light fell on it, dust motes swirling all around. The Crannogman himself stood with one hand resting on the snarling direwolf's maws.

As if reluctant to disturb the peace, Loras leaned in again: "Do you want me to stay?"

Robb shook his head, motioning for him to leave. When the doors closed after the knight, the sounds of the amassing army outside were suddenly drowned out. It was like being sealed inside a bubble.

"Your Grace," Lord Reed stepped away from the casket, turning to Robb and bending the knee. The show of fealty reduced him to the height of Robb's waist. He rose again, gesturing to the casket. "Hallis and Lady Maege… they made it as far as the Neck when the massacre happened. It wasn't safe to proceed any further, so this remained with me at Greywater Watch."

"Father." Robb had already guessed, and now approached the casket with slow, measured steps. His mother had been thrown in a river and lost, his father had been out in the ether for all he knew. Until now. "Thank you, Lord Reed. He will come back with us, to where he belongs."

"We did not think Lord Bolton would show such respect," said the Crannogman. "So, I thought it best to wait until order had been restored."

While Robb stopped short of saying order had been restored, he agreed with the first half of the Crannogman's statement. Cautiously, he lifted the lid of the casket and glimpsed the bones inside. Some small, even childish, part of him hoped he might recognise his father in those bones. But they were bones like any other set of bones. They could have been bones picked up by the roadside for all he knew, with only the word of Tyrion Lannister to authentic whose body this had once been. All the same, his grief returned like a ghost from the past. Pale, insubstantial, but undeniably there.

The direwolf banner slid to the floor as he raised the lid of the casket fully, but Howland stooped to retrieve it. Meanwhile, Robb studied the place where his father's head had been cut from his body. A clean cut, and not jagged or splintered. Then he remembered Sansa telling him Ice had been used to do the deed, but at least Ser Ilyn Payne had wielded her well. It was a small comfort found in an honourable man's ignominious death.

"There's already a place for him in Winterfell's crypts," he said, thinking aloud more than anything. "But I don't know about bringing him with us."

It felt like tempting fate, a notion he knew his father would have scoffed at. However, Lord Howland wasn't laughing. He stepped forward, into the slanting light falling from the high windows. Even at full height, he barely reached Robb's shoulder.

"He'll be quite safe here, your grace. We Crannogmen are holding the Neck, your armies are pushing North. The Boltons won't be able to touch Moat Cailin."

Robb closed the lid again and, with Howland's help, he replaced the direwolf banner that shrouded the casket. It was an old one, taken from his own battle camp by the looks of its tattered hems. But it was better than nothing.

"What is to be done about Stannis' men? They will flee south, soon enough."

"Stannis' men?" asked Robb, turning to his companion. He'd almost forgotten Stannis was even in the North.

"They were defeated in battle some time ago, Stannis himself killed in the action," Howland explained. "They were another invading army, trying to take your birth right."

Only briefly did Robb consider engaging them, but a heartbeat later and he changed his mind. "Let them pass, my lord. They came; they failed. I have no quarrel with them. But if his daughter should pass this way, she is the rightful heir to Storm's End. We would do well to keep her close."

"Alas," Howland replied, apologetically. "She was burned as a sacrifice to the god, R'hllor."

A frown creased his brow at the mention of the fire god. He'd heard of it, but only through Thoros of Myr and Beric Dondarrion from the Brotherhood. He remembered the work they did with the poor, sick and needy and couldn't equate their faith with the burning of children. He misliked it. It made his stomach turn.

"A heinous act," he murmured, still looking at his father's casket. "I will not have that faith practised on my lands if it requires the sacrifice of children. My father would never have allowed it and nor would I."

It also left them with the open succession of Storm's End. The Baratheon's were gone, as good as extinct but for Robert's bastard, Gendry of King's Landing. A blacksmith and armourer by trade, the other lords would sneer at him for the rest of his days should they attempt to make him Lord of Storm's End. But Robb could not see what choice they had.

"You may not have a choice," said Howland.

"I know," he agreed. "There is the blacksmith, though. It's better than no one."

Howland looked politely puzzled. "Pardon, your grace?"

Realising he was not referring to the succession of Storm's End, Robb coloured. "Sorry, I think we're talking about two different things. Er, a choice in what my lord?"

"The Faith of the Fire God," he replied, plaintively. "Do not mistake me, your grace. House Reed, all the Crannogmen, are of the old ways, the old gods. We have no great love for the fire god, who would consume our sacred trees. But you know of the great war that's coming. Your brother knows, he's been trying to reach you."

"Oh, I know that. But I don't see what it has to do with R'hllor. Jon didn't mention that, but he reached me at Riverrun and, I'm afraid, you've just missed him. He and Sansa are to go on to Mereen. They're bringing back the Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons to burn off the dead. Something along those lines, anyway. I haven't even seen these dead men, yet … still don't know what to make of it, if truth be told."

Howland was quiet for a moment, weighing him up. "I meant Brandon. Brandon's been trying to reach you through the trees."

Robb was lost. "Brandon? Theon said he was alive, but not where he went. Do you know something? Do Meera or Jojen know anything?"

"Meera is with him still," Howland explained as if Robb should have known this all along. "They're North of the Wall, with the Three-Eyed Crow. They have their own role to play in the coming wars. And so does R'hllor, when ice meets fire."

Robb had almost forgotten they were meant to be talking about R'hllor, but the detail about Bran had blown him off course and he barely cared anymore. "What in seven hells is a three-eyed crow?"

"An able guardian," Howland answered. "He can reach us and he can reach you. Pay attention and you will find him again, when you venture North."

Jon's friend was the one who let Bran and his companions through the wall, he knew already. But the guardian was a new detail, even more puzzling than Bran's urgent need to go north had been in the first place. Meanwhile, the lands north of the wall were huge, expansive and mostly unmapped. He felt if he was to find Bran in that desolate wasteland, he would have to pay more attention than any person reasonably had.

"Thank you, my lord. I'll find my brother and your daughter if it's the last thing I do."

Robb had thought the meeting had come to an end, he was about to back away, when Howland stopped him again. "Forgive me, where did you say your other brother was going?"

"To Mereen," he answered. "It's where Daenerys Targaryen is, and her three dragons. We need her for the war in the North. If she helps us, we'll help her take the realm in return."

Howland slowly nodded, but Robb got the feeling it was more than a gesture of agreement. He seemed to want to say something more, but was struggling to form the words.

"Does he know her?"

"He's never met her, but she'll be hard to miss with those dragons flapping around her."

"No, I mean: does he  _know_  her? Did you father ever mention her?"

Robb shrugged, wondering what all this was about. "No. Why would he?"

"Because she's Jon's aunt."

Momentarily floored, Robb's head spun for a second as he tried to work it out, propping himself against Ned Stark's casket for support. Daenerys had two siblings, both brothers. For Daenerys to be Jon's aunt, one of those brothers had to be Jon's father. The only likely contender was Rhaegar, the eldest. The same Rhaegar who took his aunt Lyanna. It was really quite simple, when looked at objectively. But in the context of the life he and his brother had lived, it was utterly fucking seismic.

"My Lord, I think you need to start from the beginning," said Robb, just about pulling himself together.

* * *

Not quite as sought after as his sister, Jon rode at the head of the procession to White Harbour while Sansa was hidden in a covered litter. Brienne was a solid, silent presence at his side and when she wasn't with him she was hovering close to the litter in case any passing Bolton man might be able to see through its sides. But her vigilance was far from unjustified.

Large bands of Bolton men patrolled the lands around White Harbour, with only the presence of so many Manderlys keeping them at bay. When they stopped overnight, they got so close Jon could hear what they were saying. Amidst the mundane chatter, they spoke of Stannis and the raids on his camp led by Roose Bolton's bastard. No matter how much he tried to tell himself it didn't concern him anymore, he hung on to every scrap of information he could get.

If it wasn't the Boltons, it was the Ryswell and Dustin men. Both had fought for Robb until Roose Bolton turned his coat and they were one of the few who wouldn't turn their cloaks back again.

"Don't they know Robb is alive?" Sansa asked, when he joined her and Lord Manderly in the litter.

"There's been no talk of him," Jon answered. "He is conspicuous by his absence in their talk. Ramsay seems to be missing Theon, though."

That was one name that had come up among the travelling foot soldiers. His sister and her companions were looking after him, and even if they did lose him to the Boltons during the journey, he wasn't sure how much he could bring himself to grieve.

"It must be difficult for you, my lord, to be working with the Ironborn after all they have done," said Sansa, turning to Lord Manderly.

"I'll work with them because my king commands it," he gruffly stated. "Just don't ask me to be pleased about it."

Nor would they. And when their mercifully short journey reached its end, Jon was taken straight to the ships the Manderlys had been secretly building. Finished now, they were great galleys fitted out with no expense spared. Twenty of them docked in the large harbour, side by side, the sails already swollen by the brisk sea breeze. Jon breathed a sigh of relief as he faced the final leg of their seemingly endless journey.

"When we can we sail?" he asked, following Lord Manderly down the dockyards.

"I'd set out at evenfall, if I were you," he answered. "Get clean away from Westeros under the cover of darkness. But listen, before you go, we get sailors from all over the known world docking in White Harbour and they bring all sorts of tales with them. I thought the dragons were just a tale at first, I thought the all-conquering princess the result of a sea-farers sinful dreams. But I know it to be true now, my lord. But all is not as it seems. Mereen is at war, with your dragon queen stuck in the middle with Yunkai and Astaphor rising against her. They say she has refugees camped at her gates and chaos breaking out in her streets. I wonder whether you'd be safer taking your chances with the Boltons than wading into that storm."

But the luxury of choice was not his. At evenfall, on the following day, he and the Ironborn, with Sansa and Brienne in their midst, boarded the fleet and set sail as advised. Before they boarded, however, the Manderly's had bequeathed them some parting gifts. Two large sails bearing the direwolf of house Stark. White on grey and white on black. Touched by the gesture, Jon watched from the prow of the ship as their hosts receded from view only to be swallowed by the darkening sea mists.

"Here we go, then."

Jon turned to find Sansa beside him, her eyes trained on the vanishing coast. Winterfell was only up the road from White Harbour and being carried so far away from it after getting so close felt like being pulled on ropes.

"I've already been to Braavos," he said, remembering old Aemon's death. "Quite looking forward to Pentos and Tyrosh though, aren't you?"

He tried to sound enthusiastic about their overnight stops in various Free Cities, but Sansa wasn't picking up on it.

"I'm rather looking forward to White Harbour," she replied. "Upon our return."

Jon laughed. "Yes, that too. That most of all."

He watched the other ships row into formation all around them, manned by Manderlys and Ironborn alike. Asha had their own ship soaring ahead of the others. Her and Theon climbed the rigging as swift and dextrous as cats.  _Even Theon,_  he thought to himself. But, now that they were on their way, it was Daenerys Targaryen who occupied his thoughts as they hugged the Westerosi coast. He wondered what sort of a person she was, what she was doing in Mereen instead of returning to Westeros. All the way to Braavos and beyond, he tried to second guess what they were sailing into.

* * *

"A naval blockade, your grace," Ser Barristan looked weary, his age showing in the lines around his eyes and mouth. "No supplies can reach Mereen by sea, none of land. We're effectively cut off and food will soon be running low."

Daenerys tried not to look worried, she dissembled her true feelings and kept her face impassive. Inside, was another matter. Refugees were starving beyond the gates of the city already. Illness and contagion was running rampant through the poorer parts of the city and cartloads of the dead were being carried off before dawn on a daily basis. The only silver lining she could see was that the Sons of the Harpy had ceased their campaign. But, when one problem was solved, three others seemed to spring up in its place.

"If we ration, how long can stocks last?" she asked, biting her lip. Had she not been Queen, she didn't think she would really want to hear the answer.

Ser Barristan didn't try to couch the bad news. "A month or two. Maybe a little longer."

Having thought the answer would be days or weeks, at most, she was almost pleasantly surprised. But months was still not enough. Nor was she prone to despair. When she thought of everything she had been through to get to where she was now, despair seemed pointless. Despair was for when Drogo died and the khalasaar turned on her. Despair had been for the Red Wastes when those who followed her died starving in the sands and all she had were three vulnerable infant dragons. But despair was not what carried her through those months of scarcity and privation. It would not be what got her through this siege.

"There must be something I can do," she said, turning to the men in the room. Her latest acquisition, Tyrion Lannister, among them. While a small man who wouldn't put much of a dint in their grain stocks, left to his own devices she thought he might drink them dry within a day or two. "Have they sent envoys? Surely, they don't want to be left on their boats for months on end, just waiting for every man, woman and child in Mereen to starve to death. Hizdahr, can you not treat with them?"

She turned to her future husband and remembered his kiss. As cold and passionless as a dead fish. But he had brought the peace with the Sons of the Harpy that he'd promised. He had proved he was either their leader or high up on their chain of command. It didn't sit well with her, but she did what she had to do. Now, he stepped forward, feet avoiding the hems of his tokar.

"It would be wise if you made the first move, your grace," he said. "I would be honoured to treat with them myself. Might I suggest sending a hostage as a mark of your good will?"

She had to admit it made sense. Be the better leader, take the initiative and make the first move. Already she found herself looking around the faces that surrounded her. Missandei she needed. Ser Barristan and Strong Belwas she could not do without. Hizdahr, she would happily throw off the top of the Pyramid, but she did not think he would play along as a hostage. Her gaze fell on Tyrion, who looked like he might not even notice if he were suddenly bundled off to Yunkai. He drained a glass of wine before turning his mismatched eyes to her. No, she needed him. She didn't know what for yet, but she needed him.

But, as she might have guessed, Hizdahr had his own ideas. "Might I suggest Daario Naharis?"

Of course. She almost admired Hizdahr for his swift execution of the plan to rid himself of a potential rival. The man himself, who had been slipping into a slow lethargy, suddenly sprang up, worried at the thought of finding himself shunted deftly out of her life. His hand was already creeping toward the dagger at his belt, but she stopped him before he could go any further.

"Peace, Daario," she said. "I'll give the matter my full consideration. You will have my answer in the morning."

That evening, she retired to her chambers and watched as the sun set over the city. When she turned toward the bay beyond the city walls, she thought she might be able to see the ships blockading the bay, if she squinted. But the air was thick with smoke and gloom from the fading light. Her people always looked most vulnerable at night, when the darkness drew in and the shadows came alive with men in masks. But no more. She had done what she had to do and brought them a semblance of peace.

All the same, she knew she would miss Daario once he was gone from her life.

* * *

The skirmish had been brief. Not even a proper battle, with barely a third of Robb's forces deployed. But they had vastly outnumbered the Dustin and Ryswell men. Better yet, they still seemed to think they were taking on a host of dying Ironborn more used to fighting at sea. When a mixed host from the Vale, the Reach and the Riverlands, they attempted to flee only to retreat into Robb's own forces that managed to creep around to the opposite side of Barrowton. The fleeing army tried to make for the north, only to be cut off by the White Knife. With the Crannogmen holding the Neck, fleeing south was no an option and surrender came quickly.

One minute, Robb felt like he was on tenterhooks, waiting for the carnage to begin. Half a heartbeat later, he was kneeling in the grass and wiping the blood from his sword in triumph. It was almost frustrating, to be deprived of another major battle. But taking back the North was never going to be one major showdown between him and Roose Bolton. It was going to be piecemeal, one step at a time, slowly creeping forward to Winterfell.

"Lady Dustin has already fled, your grace."

Robb looked up, to where Garlan Tyrell had clapped him on the shoulder.

"I thought she might. No doubt, she's running to Roose Bolton and taken most of her army with her."

That was why there were so few to meet them that day. A token force had been sent, knowing they'd be overcome with ease, but could hold out just long enough for Barbrey and the bulk of her fighting men to flee for Winterfell. Once there, they would join up with the Boltons, adding to the vast host they already commanded.

"Take Barrow Hall, all the same," said Robb, climbing back to his feet. "I'll not have Margaery stay another night in those ruins."

Ser Garlan looked relieved as he issued the command to advance. Robb came up behind them, mounted on a destrier. By sheer force of habit, he looked behind him, expecting to see Jon there. When only Ser Loras appeared, Robb felt his heart drop like a stone as he remembered his brother had been gone for weeks already. Brother… cousin .., whatever Jon was meant to be to him, now.

Just as in the days since his conversation with Howland Reed, Robb had to push all that to the back of his mind as they advanced on Barrowton. The town itself offered no resistance, opening its gates to them as the armies rode inside.

"Lady Barbrey is a strange one," Willis Manderly informed him as they entered the town. "She refuses to host Ramsay in her halls and barred the gates to him, yet she's fled at the first sight of us. If she bent the knee here and now, this could have been avoided and she'd never have to look at Ramsay again."

Some of the men they had killed in that afternoon's skirmish had fought by Robb's side in previous campaigns. Only very few, but enough for him to notice and feel the guilt squirming through his guts. Barbrey Dustin had never forgiven Ned Stark, an antipathy she had passed from father to son.

They found Barrow Hall as good as undefended, the entire forces fled to join up with the Boltons farther north. House Slate, whose halls were barely a few miles from Barrow Hall, kept its gates shut as they took the main keep. An uphill struggle, the soldiers were footsore by the time they reached the top. And from that keep, Robb surveyed the many banners flying from the towers. Bolton, Cerywn, Manderly … and Baratheon.

"A soft spot for Stannis, it seems," Robb laughed to himself. "Maybe she fled in heartbreak of hearing of his death."

Whatever else Barbrey Dustin was, she was also gone from her halls and they took up residence with ease. Margaery could lie in a warm dry bed, sleeping off her pregnancy fatigue. A luxury they both relished that night, although sleep eluded them both. He lay in Margaery's arms, frowning into the darkness and the dying firelight.

"I know you're awake," said Margaery, eventually.

He had his back to her and she kissed the spot on his shoulders, scarred by the Freys crossbow quarrel. She was awfully territorial about that scar.

Just for a moment, he considered shrugging her off with some excuse. But if he didn't speak soon, he knew he would lose his mind. So, he sat up in bed and turned to face her. "What would you do if you found out people had lied to you from birth? About everything?"

Margaery didn't reply right away. Her brow creased, her expression darkening as she also sat up. "I can't even guess at how I'd react. Why? What's happened?"

Telling her what Howland Reed had told him was out of the question. Only Jon could be the next person to know and his alluding to some great secret was only sowing confusion and, worse, misunderstanding in case she thought it was him who'd been lied to. He skirted around the most sensitive of details as best he could.

"Let's say, you aren't really Mace Tyrell's daughter, but you grew up thinking you were and loving him as your father for your whole life. Would you want to know the truth?"

"Yes. Absolutely yes. People deserve the truth, no matter how painful it might be," she answered, looking even more concerned. As he feared, the misunderstanding occurred. "Has someone said Lord Stark was not your father?"

"Not me, no," he set her right. He drew a deep breath and exhaled a sigh of defeat. "It's nothing. I'm being a lackwit again, ignore me."

"No, you've been quiet and out of sorts for days now," she replied, brushing a lock of hair back from his brow. "Ever since we left Moat Cailin. I thought it was the battle to come, but now this."

"I thought my father was an honest man. You might have called him 'honest to a fault'."

"That's the reputation he had," Margaery assured him. "Even my grandmother says the same."

"Then, like everyone else, your grandmother was mistaken," he said, sharply. "I should say no more, my love. We both should get some sleep."

He blew out the one remaining candle, leaving them both in darkness as he laid his head back on the pillow. Close by, Margaery was still sitting up, pondering and waiting to see if he changed his mind. Only when the silence thickened did she lay back down, leaving him to his tumultuous thoughts. He recognised his father as well as he recognised those dry old bones, now. But Margaery was right about one thing: Jon had to be told.


	26. The Quickening

Sleet and snow took it in turns to demoralise the vast host of marching men. If they showed any sign of getting used to it, the wind would chime in with gale-force gusts to try and blow them off-course. In the mornings, the ground crunched beneath their feet. By afternoon, it was sucking slush-mud that easily slipped through the barriers of poorer soldier's boots. Illness was rife, hunger and exhaustion leaving many weakened for the battle ahead. All the same, they pressed on and followed the White Knife and headed north again.

Soldiers from the Reach had been worst hit. The cold and harsh conditions claimed more and more of them with each passing day, while ten thousand of them had been left behind at Barrowton and Moat Cailin, reinforcing the garrisons there in case of any surprise southern attacks from their enemies. Every night, they camped wherever they were at the moment the sunset and made it through the hours of darkness as best they could.

Robb did what he could to keep the camp together, but retired to his own tent as exhausted as any of them and slept in the furs he'd worn during the day. But, almost a month after leaving Barrowton, he lay sleepless in his bunk and dug into his pocket in search of the scroll of parchment he found secreted away inside his saddle pack. He'd rolled and unrolled it so many times now that the paper's edges were wearing thin and the green silk ribbon starting to fray. It was only a missive from Margaery, who had been left behind at Barrow Hall. She'd drawn the good likeness of a tiny baby growing from a stem with the words 'growing strong' written beneath. Every night, he kissed it before rolling over to fall asleep.

He wondered what she looked like now. It had been a month since he saw her last. Was she letting out her bodices yet? If they left it much longer to take back Winterfell, she might not be fit to travel until the pregnancy was over – a thought that made him uneasy.

"Have you thought of any names yet?" Garlan asked him as he entered the tent and saw him gazing wistfully at the picture.

Still slouched on his bunk, Robb lowered one corner of the parchment to get his brother by law in view. "Cregan for a boy. Lyarra for a girl."

"Not Eddard, for your father?" Garlan sounded genuinely surprised.

"I think not. The last time, I wanted to name the child that and now I think it might be jinxed." Silently, in the confines of his own mind, Robb added:  _and because the other was the liar of a lifetime._

"I fear I might have made you maudlin now," said Garlan. He shoved Robb's legs aside so he could sit on the bunk. As he did so, he pulled two bottles from inside his cloak and handed one to Robb. "Well, here's to Cregan Stark and may he be very swiftly followed by little Lyarra."

Uncorking the bottles with their teeth, they drank their toast to the future Stark. The honey mead tasted like the nectar of the gods.

"You know Jaime Lannister's still loitering around the camp, don't you?"

"Aye," replied Robb. "I can't decide if he's genuinely lost or whether he just doesn't want to go home."

"Would you want to go home to Cersei? Seriously, though, I don't know how useful he'll be without his sword hand and the Bolton's are supposed to be Lannister allies."

"He has a certain knack for survival, I have to give him that. I'm sure he'll pick the right side," said Robb. "Speaking of which, we're drawing in on the Boltons and I want to ford the White Knife before we meet them in battle."

"We could follow the Kingsroad, which leads right to a bridge over the White Knife," said Garlan. "But…"

"Roose Bolton will be expecting us to go that way," Robb finished the sentence for him. "But, Roose Bolton also knows me well enough to second guess that I won't do as he expects. And under no circumstances will that bridge be left undefended."

Robb considered his position for a minute. If they pressed on, they could reach the bridge and find that the Boltons haven't yet made it that far south. But, realistically, it was wishful thinking. It would be up to him and his forces to fight for control of it. If they tried to cross, which they'd be forced to do so one at a time, Bolton archers would pick them off one by one. All the same, he couldn't leave them unchecked.

"I won't do as Roose expects," he confirmed. "I'll lead the bulk of our forces on the White Harbour side of the river, bypassing the bridge and attacking from the east. Let's just hope he hasn't second guessed me."

"I could send for reinforcements from Barrowton if you do wish to attack the bridge as well," Garlan suggested.

Robb was hesitant. Loras and the men who'd been left behind were the party that would rush Margaery back south again should he, Robb, fall in battle. It was imperative that she, and the heir to Winterfell, make it to safety in the event of defeat. In the end, he agreed.

"And I must ford the White Knife to join my forces to Lord Manderly's," Robb reminded the other man. "He's bringing one thousand foot and five hundred cavalry to my side. Meanwhile, I have heard nothing from the other Houses once sworn to my father."

"And how many is Lady Dustin bringing to House Bolton?" he asked. "Hers is the most southerly of the Northern Houses."

"Between her House and her father's, close to five thousand," Robb replied. "She sent barely any men to my aid when I first marched south, so her forces are in tact despite the red wedding. Then there's House Hornwood, who have another one thousand foot and five hundred cavalry."

"And they'll definitely fight for the Boltons?" Garlan asked, frowning.

"If we gain an early advantage, the Hornwoods will be the first to switch sides and come to us," he explained. "Ramsay abducted Lady Hornwood after both of her sons were killed at the Whispering Wood. He forced her to marry him so he would get her lands and left her to starve to death in a dungeon. Now those lands have been annexed to the Dreadfort. They'll be wary of breaking ranks, unless it's clear we're going to win."

Garlan grimaced at the fate of Lady Hornwood and Robb had spared him the goriest of details. Of how she had been discovered dead, having tried to eat her own flesh. "Any others?"

Robb weighed it up in his head. "Karstarks, Cerwyns, Tallharts and a spare one thousand Freys who fled the Riverlands after we took the Twins. We're facing an army of roughly twenty-three thousand at most."

Garlan sipped his honey mead, quietly mulling things over. "We have a force of thirty thousand with us. Weak from a long march, unused to the terrain. We don't outnumber them as much as I'd like. But we do have another fifteen thousand in reserve, to replace the weak and injured. They don't have that."

"The undeclared Houses could give us a decisive victory," said Robb. "The Mountain Clans, House Glover… if the Hornwoods or Cerwyns switch sides."

"Any chance with the Dustins or Ryswells?"

"None," said Robb, truthfully. "Barbey is a Ryswell by birth and a Dustin by marriage, both Houses answer to her. She's Roose Bolton's ex-sister by law and she's always hated the Starks. Bad blood from the rebellion."

"That's a shame," Garlan remarked. "I heard that Ramsay killed her nephew, thinking to make himself heir to the Dreadfort. If we get to Roose and Ramsay, she might switch sides thinking to make Fat Walda's child Lord of the Dreadfort."

Robb was doubtful. "Or, she could fight on in hope of pushing us back down the Neck and making Fat Walda's child Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I would not rely on anything Barbrey Dustin might do, especially now that we've taken her lands."

"What about a parley with Roose Bolton?"

It was considered polite before any battle, but again Robb was hesitant. There could be no compromise. There could be no question of either Roose or Ramsay walking away from the battle with some compromise, some sop to their ravenous ambition. The Red Wedding had forced his hand and the final showdown was inevitable. "I cannot imagine what Roose Bolton and I would possibly have to say to each other."

That night, he kissed his parchment good night and dreamed of an old tenant farmer his father once knew. He had a dog he'd trained to herd sheep, Robb had once seen him doing it.

* * *

"You can't wear your bodices now, my lady." Jeyne smiled as she delivered the bad fashion news. Standing behind Margaery in front of a full-length mirror, she could see it now. A fast growing swelling that was definitely a baby and not someone who'd over-indulged at the previous night's dinner table. She ran her hands over her shift, flattening the fabric over her belly.

"Five months," she said, crying. These days, everything made her cry. "And I wish I knew why I'm constantly crying."

"It happens, just ignore it. Everyone else will, don't worry about that."

"Are you speaking from personal experience, Grandmama?" As lovely as it was to have her grandmother back, her terse advice wasn't having its usual effect.

"Oh yes," the old lady replied from her seat by the fire. "Crying constantly. And vomiting. Just wait until the pissing every two minutes and the indigestion starts, and you're doing all of the above simultaneously. Then you'll have something to cry about."

"It's a wonder the human race hasn't gone extinct," she grumbled, letting Jeyne drop a loose gown over her head. Although already beginning to look like she'd been draped in tent material, she didn't much mind. And even with bodices, the cloak over the top would have made her look as she did, anyway. This far North, the cloak was needed. Every layer of clothing was needed.

Beyond the windows, dawn was breaking over Barrowton. High up on the hill, they could look downwards and see a great sea of low-lying mist with other hill peaks piercing the top. It was a strange and beautiful sight. Even at that early hour, she could hear people in the yards below. Loras was down there, with Arya and Robert Arryn. They were still teaching the Lord of the Vale to fight, but he was proving as useless with a bow and arrow as he was a sword. Margaery watched as his arrow jerked off the bowstring and dropped to his feet.

It wasn't necessary to be skilled at arms, she thought to herself. Willas sprung into her mind. The future Lord of Highgarden had been crushed beneath the weight of a destrier, leaving his leg permanently damaged. He walked with a leg brace and stick, his days of leading armies over before they even began. But while his martial prowess had been nipped in the bud, he still had a fine strategic mind and planned operations, rather than took part in them. He read voraciously, learned languages and diplomacy. That was where they were going wrong with Sweet Robin, she thought as she watched the sorry scene unfold.

"He's not getting any better," she said, turning to Jeyne. "Go down there and have him brought to me."

"Lord Robert?"

"Yes, tell the others to stop wasting their time," she added. "He's not a fighter, so we must make him a politician."

The sound of Olenna's laughter was dry and brittle. "Good luck with that. The boy's a lackwit."

He was small, sickly and skinny, with runny grey-green eyes. Every time she saw him, he looked a little more like Petyr Baelish. It was a similarity that had been playing on her mind more and more.

"It's funny, isn't it, how none of Jon Arryn's other wives gave him children," she said, turning back to Sweet Robin. "How many times was he married before Lysa?"

"Twice," Olenna replied. "They had children, but they all died either in the womb or straight after birth. Lysa had a number of miscarriages, too. Anyway, what are you implying?"

Perhaps she was mistaken after all. "Oh, nothing. It's probably nothing."

All the same, the suspicion wouldn't shift.

* * *

"I can't believe this actually worked." Garlan was looking through the Myrish lens as he spoke. "Look at them all, your grace. They're all crammed into the fork of the river."

Robb could see without the lens, although in no great detail. They forded the White Knife under the cover of darkness, using hastily constructed bridges that they destroyed after use. In the meantime, he sent out raiding parties to ward off Bolton outriders, making his presence felt in several different places. All the while, his main army headed north-east, swinging wide around the river to the place where it forked toward the north-east and in the opposite way to the north-west.

"If they try to retreat south, they're cut off by the river," he said. "They can't advance north without running into us. They can try to get around the sides, but the forks and flows in both directions. They'll drown in their armour or be cut down where they stand."

Like sheep being rounded up by wolves, the Bolton forces had been penned in on almost all sides. Now the sun was rising and they could surely be seen.

"They're forming the cavalry up now," said Garlan.

"We should do the same."

The command went up almost immediately, met with a flurry of activity and stamping horses. Robb was uneasy. They'd been marching uphill all night, many hadn't had a chance to eat yet. Now they were about to be engaged without a chance to sit down for a moment's rest.

"We have the higher ground," he pointed out, more to reassure himself than anyone else. "And I think that's Bolton's full force down there."

Garlan handed him the far-eye, letting him see for himself. It was so strong he could pick out the banners. All the ones he suspected were there. Bolton, Karstark, Ryswell, Dustin, Hornwood, Tallhart and Ceryn. No sign of the Glovers, or the mountain clans. The Mormonts had sent reinforcements, but they had not arrived in time. But, at least, Lady Lyanna had readily sworn fealty to him.

As he mulled it over, they began their advance as the Bolton forces came up to meet them. As both sides drew closer, he wondered whether Roose would try to parley after all. But he saw no white flags among the multitude of banners flapping in the strengthening winds.

"We have the higher ground, but the wind is against us," said Garlan.

Robb was trying not to notice that. They had plenty of spearmen to compensate for any disadvantage the archers might face. But, ideally, he would have both units at full capability.

"We must push them back towards the White Knife," he repeated like a mantra.

"This is always the worst part, isn't it?" Jaime Lannister appeared at Robb's side, to his amazement. "This bit, where we're all just waiting for the carnage to begin."

He couldn't help but glance down at Jaime's missing hand. "Are you sure you want to be here?"

"Oh, quite sure. I told you, Ser Ilyn taught me to fight left-handed. Now's a good a time as any to see if the lesson's paid off."

By mid-morning, the two armies were barely miles apart and facing each other across a vast empty space. Robb had managed to manoeuvre his troops around so they were approaching from the north and backtracking south, the way they came. Still he waited to see if a white banner unfurled. While peace banners remained elusive, Robb's eye was caught by a Bolton commander clad in garish pink armour, veined in red. He realised Ramsay was trying to resemble their sigil's flayed man, but he though the Bastard of the Dreadfort looked nothing more than ridiculous.

Leading from the front with Garlan, Greatjon, Ser Jaime and Wyman Manderly's Captain of the Guard, Robb looked back at his serried ranks of men. A great stream of them, Cavalry and Foot alike, swarming down the hillside in a sea of banners and steel. But, from where he was looking, the Bolton forces looked just as vast.

"Should we wait for them?" Garlan asked.

"Fuck it," said Robb. "Sound the horns and prepare for the cavalry charge. Let's get this over and done with."

The silence felt smothering until the war horns shattered it. A low, wailing note that carried in the air between the two sides. Without further ado, the commanders bellowed the order to charge, spurs dug into the flanks of destriers and they were off… charging across open ground, all Robb could hear was the remorseless pounding of horse's hooves. Banners whipped and snapped in the fierce slipstream of wind, spears falling all around them as they willingly crashed bodily into the Bolton's frontlines.

Shield up, sword draw, Robb steered his horse into the press of people rushing up to greet with his with weapons drawn. In the periphery of his vision, he noticed a large formation of soldiers standing stock still, the banners of House Glover fluttering in the wind. As the snow began to swirl and the wind picked up, Robb didn't blame Lord Glover for hedging his bets.

* * *

The raven came in the early afternoon. A faint black speck on the horizon, rapidly growing larger. Margaery already knew who it was from, but tried to remain calm all the same. But, no matter how coolly she tried to play it, her stitches grew more crooked the harder she tried to channel her nervous energy into stitching baby gowns. She left it to the Maester to break the good news.

"His Grace, the King in the North, has engaged the enemy at the White Knife," he said, stepping cautiously into the room. He didn't like having the Tyrells there, that much was obvious. "You must make ready to travel north."

Margaery's heart palpitated, her mouth ran dry. All the same, she put away her needlework and got to her feet. Jeyne did the same, but Sweet Robin carried on playing with his toy soldier. He looked up, meeting the Maester's gaze. "Is anyone dead yet?"

"Shut up," Arya warned him.

"It's all right," said Margaery, smiling brightly. "I'm sure lots of people have died. Lots of Boltons."

Arya gave her an approving smile before moving to help her to the door. Despite the front she put up, her nerves were bad. The Twins had been a test run for their army, Winterfell was the real thing. Despite the numbers, she felt like they had everything balanced on a fine hair.

"I will not rest until I hear word of victory," she sighed, feeling light headed. "I don't think I can bear the wait."

She had got up and was walking around, but she didn't even know where she was supposed to be walking to. These days, as the pregnancy progressed, she started doing something and promptly forgot what it was supposed to be, even when she was actually doing it. Meanwhile, Arya directed her to a window seat, where they could look out over the snow-battered landscape. So beautiful, but utterly deadly. The wind blew so hard it made the mullions rattle in their frames.

The infant inside her moved for the first time. A small, fluttering shift of stance. She fell against the wall with a sharp gasp, Arya trying to catch her before she properly fell. Lowered into the window seat, she slowly got her breath back.

She answered Arya's questioning look. "It quickened, that's all. It was just the quickening."

It felt like the violent beginnings of something new.

* * *

Arrows fell short as the blew into the archer's faces. Snow fell thick underfoot, stained red from the blood of the slain. Even fighting downhill, the going was rough and The Reach took heavy losses, as Robb had predicted they would. He broke free of a protective knot of knights of the Vale, only to have a Bolton bannerman cut the legs of his horse from under him. Sandor Clegane repaid the man by hacking his head off in one smooth stroke, before lunging into a press of enemy fighters.

Rather than mourn his horse, Robb managed to fall back into the ranks of his own men in an effort to reach and redirect the archers still raining useless arrows down on their own side. All the while House Glover still waited, watching to see which way the battle went. He heard Ser Garlan give the order to advance, a shield wall formed up in the blink of an eye and they pushed forwards as one. It was then that House Hornwood turned on the Boltons. Robb heard the declaration over the shouts and the clashing of swords and spear.

He managed to reach the archers, ordering them to cease fire and focus on picking off the enemy forces that tried to retreat past their right flank. Finally, the archers fell back and ceased firing into the blizzard like winds. The snow had blinded them, anyway and rendered them as good as useless.

As they moved, Robb momentarily found himself on open ground and several feet away from the press of the fighting. He hadn't realised it at first, but when his horse fell from under him and he'd jumped clear, he'd been hit with a arrow that caught him in the shoulder. Now, in the open and raw winds, it was stinging like a bitch. From some distance, he saw the Glover men in box formation, biding their time.

' _Enjoying the entertainments, my lord_?" Robb wondered to himself.

For just a second, he sensed he and Lord Glover were looking directly at each other. A flicker of movement, the sound of a war horn blaring and they charged as one as across the snowbound earth. The Boltons buckled under House Glover's second cavalry charge. Almost faint with relief, Robb threw himself back into the press of the fighting. He knew he shouldn't have underestimated the Glovers.

We're winning, he realised. It was almost a secondary realisation. But he knew they had to be winning now. He hunkered behind the shield wall, his armour weighing him down in the snow and the wet, sucking mud that lay beneath. But he grabbed a spear from a dead Vale Knight and used it to skewer a few Boltons through the spaces between the shields. Inching forwards all the time, he found himself trying to do several things at once.

"Get the Cunt Lord!" Sandor roared in Robb's ear. The smell of blood, wine and dirt clung to the Hound like lady's perfume.

"What?" Robb gasped, still trying to shoulder up the shield wall.

"Go get the Cunt Lord," he repeated.

"I think our mutual friend is making discreet reference to Lord Bolton."

Seeing Jaime Lannister, and realising he was still alive, brought with it a perverse sense of relief to Robb. He was a strange one, but he had stood firm with his one good fighting arm. Meanwhile, Sandor had pulled him out of the way and put the sword, Oathkeeper, back in his hands. The blade was already dripping with blood.  _Go get the Cunt Lord_ , he thought to himself. It was good advice.

They'd smashed Bolton defences and now it was open season, wiping out the remnants of their forces and bringing them to their knees. But Sandor was right, he needed to be the one to hunt down Roose Bolton. He had to be the one to finish this properly. But the only one he could identify was Ramsay, in the ludicrous pink armour now smeared with blood and shit.

"Ramsay!" he called out.

The pink armour swayed as the man inside spun on his heels, lifting the visor of the helm to see who called out to him. Robb stood, caked in dirt and blood, no longer feeling the pain in his injured shoulder. The snow fell all around them, swirling and scattering on the breeze.

"I can't believe we've never met until now," Robb added, grinning like the village idiot. "It's been too long."

Quick as a viper, he slashed at the other man's open visor and opened his fat dumb mouth. Blood gushed from the rapidly closed visor, muffling a stream of curses. But Robb should have known a man who preferred torturing people to death wouldn't be able to fight his way out from under a wet sheet. He disarmed the bastard in seconds and kicked him into the dirt before thrusting the blade of his sword down through the gorget and through his throat. A spurt of blood splattered through the wound, before falling flat as his heart stopped beating.

All around him, small skirmishes carried on. The Cerwyns had long since abandoned the Boltons, just as House Hornwood had. The Mountain Clans had put in an appearance after all but had been waylaid on the terrible roads. They arrived in time to mop up the dregs.

No battle ever just stopped. It just slowly wound down as men were slain, or collapsed in exhaustion. One side overcame the other, then casually strolled around thrusting spears though the bodies on the ground, making sure they were really dead. That was happening now, but the battle felt far from over as far as Robb was concerned.

"You killed him."

It was a statement, not a question. Robb turned to find Roose Bolton, spotlessly clean, standing over his bastard son's body. If he felt any form of grief, he did not show it. Nor anger, nor any other emotion. That had always been the most disconcerting thing about Roose Bolton: his complete and utter lack of human emotion. It was something fundamental thing that had been omitted at the moment of his conception.

"I'm going to kill you too, in just a second."

"Why wait?"

"Good question."

Roose could kill him now and still win the battle, keep Winterfell and install his wife's child as the heir to the North. But, from the outset, Robb knew it would come to this. Single combat. Just the two of them. Him exhausted from the battle, up against Roose who'd sat the whole thing out and commanded from the rear. And, unlike his son, he knew how to fight.

Their swords met and locked, until Robb aimed a sharp kick in Bolton's gut and sent him staggering backwards. Quick to seize the advantage, he aimed another blow at the Lord of the Dreadfort but he rolled and it glanced off his breastplate. Recovering swiftly, he counterattacked and Robb almost missed it. Breathless and aching from exhaustion, he fell back to recover himself. Only, Bolton wasn't so generous and lunged at him again.

This could go on for hours, he realised. He didn't want that. He just wanted to go home. Something inside him snapped and the rules of single combat flew out on the wind as he smashed in Bolton's face with the pommel of his sword, kicked the legs out from under him. A much older, lighter man than him, he crashed onto his back in the snow and dirt.

"Just finish the cunt," griped Sandor.

He remembered Talisa, his mother, his unborn child and all the others who perished at the Twins. Just for a second. Since that was all it took to drive the point of his sword through Bolton's throat and out through the back of his neck.

In the blink of an eye, in the final beating of a heart, it was over. It was all over. He stood in the wreckage of the battlefield, ankle deep in snow stained vivid red with blood and entrails and looked all around him. The river had become blocked with corpses, fighting men fled over these bridges of dead flesh in an effort to escape his wrath. The waters of the White Knife, like the snow on the ground, were now running red with spilled blood.

"Let them go," he said, when the Glover men made to route the remnants of Roose's army. It was some sort of compensation for their late arrival. "That's enough for one day, let them go."

It was early afternoon, but felt like it should have been much later. All the same, he knew what was left of their forces would not advance much further north that day. Let them rest. Let them recover. He had time back on his side, now that he was Lord of Winterfell again.


	27. Mother of Dragons

Softly, silently, snowflakes drifted through the hole in the roof of the First Keep. Icicles formed sharp teeth hanging from the charred and blackened roofbeams still jutting from the stone walls. Robb had to tread carefully over the floorboards, rotted away by exposure to the elements but the missing slats dangerously concealed by snow and detritus. Through the First Keep, into the Guard's Hall where repairs had been carried out by the Boltons. A bone crunched underfoot. A jaw bone, with loose teeth still rattling in the sockets. He paused for a moment, wondering whose it once was.

Up the tower of the empty Rookery, he walked out onto the covered bridge that connected to the Main Keep where he and his siblings grew up as children. Only his footsteps broke the silence, echoing over the empty yard where a fire had recently burned out. What servants had remained tore down the Bolton banners and built a pyre before he returned, sparing him the sight of the flayed man hanging from his battlements and turrets. Now ash and charred scraps of pink and red silk blew across the cobbles, the smell of smoke still lingering in the air.

When he was a small boy, one of the first lessons his father taught him was that no lord could rule through fear alone. Fear made those who inspired it feel powerful, that much was true. But fear was a brittle thing and never static. Just one blow to a feared lord's perceived power and weakness was exposed, bringing that fear crashing down. A feared lord could heap terror upon layer of terror, as the Boltons had tried to do. But if innocent people were going to be flayed alive no matter what, then what did they have to lose by rising up against their oppressors? In such cases, fear became irrelevant. And, in the end, it had been the servants and smallfolk that had turned on the Boltons still holding Winterfell. News of his victory at the White Knife had come through and they'd torn down the banners, hanged the retainers still holding the garrison and smashed down the gate using battering rams made from felled trees. The first corpse he passed was that of a Bolton guard with a pitchfork driven through his throat.

His tour of the deserted castle continued. Even in his darkest days, he had never imagined Winterfell empty. It had been fixed permanently in his mind as a place full of life, people and animals, noise and children running semi-wild through the halls and courtyards. Crossing the yard, a snowball could smack you in the head at any moment. Right now, not even the ghosts remained. Only bones and fallen masonry. He began to wonder whether he'd pined for a home that never really existed.

Even the Main Keep was in darkness. A trestle table had been overturned and one wall's panelling had been scorched during a fire. The brazier responsible was still overturned on the floor. But the direwolf of his House still dominated the wall behind the dais. A piece of them not even Roose Bolton could chip away. The high table and lord's seat was the same one he remembered from years gone by.

Back out in the yard, he passed the ruins of the sept. The Ironborn had done for that, if he remembered it rightly. Septon Chayle himself had been thrown down a well and left to die; he could be down there still for all Robb knew. He stepped inside what was left of the sept, finding it caved in at the roof with the beams and supporting rafters collapsed around the floor. A smashed crystal scattered, glinting from between charcoaled wood. Wondering whether to level it or rebuild it for Margaery, he found himself lingering among the wreckage far longer than he intended and only the crying of an infant jolted him from his musings.

Initially, he thought he was hearing things. The castle was deserted but for him and his greyhound, even his horse was tethered at the gates. He gave his head a shake, but the whimpering cry came again. A thin, wavering note followed by a hastily stifled 'shush' from someone older. The sound came from within the sept, but he could see no sign of life.

"Who's there?" he called out. Only the presence of a baby stayed his sword hand.

The baby cried again, the adult obviously with it stifled a choking cry of their own. But Robb finally found them. Cowering beneath the wrecked altar, mostly covered by the alter cloth, a large woman wrapped her arms around a tiny new born. She stared up at Robb through terrified eyes, her face as white as snow but for livid red marks that ran down both sides of her face. Someone had clawed at her, a patch of white scalp showed through her hair where someone had pulled a fistful of it out. Visibly shaking, she wrapped her arms tighter around the baby so Robb couldn't even see it and tried to shy from him.

"Lady Bolton," he said by way of greeting.

At the sound of her name, she gasped and sobbed. Tears shone on her round face, lips trembling as she tried to wring from words from her throat. All the while, she clutched her infant to her bosom and it was a wonder it wasn't suffocating.

"P-please, my lord, I'll go back to the Riverlands – "

"I'm not your lord, I'm your king. And you can't go back to the Riverlands, your grandfather's House has fallen," he explained brusquely. "Look, I'm not a Bolton nor a Frey. I don't hurt babies or defenceless women. Come out from under there, I promise I won't do anything untoward."

Climbing gingerly over fallen masonry, he went to help her up. Thinking she was worried about the baby, he reached out to carry it to safety. But she whipped the little bundle away as soon as she saw his hands reaching for it.

"Forgive me," he said, right hand still extended. "I gave you my word, now take my hand. It's not safe for you in here."

Had Ramsay still been alive that baby would have been dead already, he realised. Roose knew that, too. He'd said as much to his mother, once. Ramsay had done for Domeric and would undoubtedly do likewise for any son this wife had. The only regret the Leech Lord seemed to have was the grief it would cause Walda, rather than his own dynastic legacy. But then, Roose had always been a strange one.

Eventually, after much cajoling, Robb got the former Lady Walda Bolton inside the Main Keep. It was warm in there, sheltered from the elements thanks to Bolton repairs. He managed to get a fire going and a supply cart from the baggage train arrived with food and small ale. The first tentative signs of life returning to Winterfell.

"Why were you hiding in the Sept?" he asked as soon as they were warm and had food in front of them.

Walda hesitated, fretful and uncertain. "They attacked me. The servants. I saw them kill the guards and then they came for me and my baby."

They almost got her too, if the marks on her face and the missing hair were anything to go by.

"That's very regrettable," he answered, pulling at a heel of bread. "But after everything your husband did to those people, their fury is understandable – I will not be pursuing the matter. Now peace has been restored, House Stark is back in Winterfell, I am returned as their King: I will make it plain no harm is come to you or the baby. Is it a boy?"

Walda nodded. "He won't be a monster, like Ramsay. I swear, I'll raise him better than that. I thought to name him after his other brother, Domeric. I hear only good about him and I thought if he's named for a good man, he'll grow to be a good man."

"Domeric was a good man," Robb agreed. It was true. Domeric Bolton was learned, a talented musician and showed all the promise of being the decent lord the Dreadfort so desperately needed. The only mistake he made was his attempt to get to know his half-brother; an act of brotherly love that left him in an early grave. "But your son will be raised here at Winterfell, by my Queen and I. He'll be raised as one of our own; educated, trained and nurtured alongside our own children. If all goes well, he'll wed my eldest daughter or, if I have none, a suitable lord's daughter."

Walda tried to stifle her tears of relief, her body sagging as she gripped her son. But the baby had settled again now that he'd been fed from his mother's breast and slept deeply. Robb had managed to get a proper look at him. He had fine golden curls, just like his mother, and her same dazzling blue eyes.

"And what of me?" she asked. "I cannot return to the Twins; my mother won't have me back at Castle Darry and my father is dead."

"The Dreadfort is yours," he answered. "But there's a caveat. All lands once belonging to House Hornwood have now been transferred to Lord Wyman Manderly. The land west of the Weeping Water has been gifted to House Glover. The land bordering the south of your late husband's territories has been brought under Stark jurisdiction. My Queen will see to the running of it and, upon her death, it will be bequeathed to whichever of our children she sees fit. A holdfast will be established there to keep the power of House Bolton under control. House Umber will be taking over the lands north of the Dreadfort, saving the first one hundred square miles, which remain under Bolton ownership. All land south as far as the Weeping Water, also remain under Bolton ownership."

In essence, he had broken House Bolton's legs but given them a crutch to walk with. But whether Walda understood that, it was hard to tell. She smiled vacantly at him, seemingly rather happy.

"You are not free to remarry at will," he continued. "If you do wish to wed again, you must present my Queen and I with a petition. Whether we agree or not is entirely down to us."

"Oh, I have no desire to remarry, your grace," she insisted. "I have my son and I have a new home, what more could I want?"

It was something easily said when someone was merely happy to be alive. But he knew suitors would soon come running for her in hope of a few scraps from the Stark and Bolton tables. Marriage was power, and this one didn't seem to grasp that.

"When you do take up residence at the Dreadfort, you're free to visit your son here at Winterfell whenever you wish," he ceded. "And, naturally, we will arrange for him to visit the Dreadfort on occasion, more frequently as he nears his time of majority."

Under the circumstances, it was the best offer he could give her. But, she seemed content as they turned their minds to breaking their fast. All the while, the rest of his company was slowly rolling through the gates of Winterfell. He'd left the barbican open to admit them purposefully. It was then, as his mind wandered beyond the walls of his own castle that a thought struck him.

"Is House Darry still loyal to House Targaryen?"

Walda, rightfully, looked rather taken aback by the question. "I always thought so. But recently, my mother made my sister marry Lancel Lannister, who then abandoned Ami for the faith. Before that, we still had the Targaryen banners inside all our halls. We only took them down when King Robert came to stay as he was on his way to the North to visit your father. As soon as he was out the door, they went back up again."

Poor House Darry, always backing the horse that was out front but about to fall at the final hurdle. The Targaryens, the Freys, the Boltons and now the bloody Lannisters, too. Whatever the case, House Darry was still worth a try.

"Write to your mother and tell her that Daenerys Targaryen will soon be returning to Westeros with an army and three grown dragons," he explained. "Lady Mariya owes nothing to the Freys now her husband is dead and she would do well to make a friend in Daenerys Targaryen. Tell her to leave Lancel to his prayers and to back the right side, for once."

Walda looked at him curiously for a moment, a twinkle in her eyes. "Is it true?" her voice was barely a whisper. "About the dragons?"

Robb nodded. "And Walda, now you're looking after the Dreadfort for your son. I've as good as made you a proper Lady of the North. You have power now. You understand?"

Her face coloured. "Oh, yes. Yes, I do."

"So, I can rely on you for your full support and backing," he continued.

"Absolutely, your grace," she replied without hesitation. "But I know little of politics, I was only meant to be a Lord's wife- "

"We'll guide you," he promised her. "Don't worry about that. Just do as the Queen and I say and you'll do well for yourself."

He paused to let what he was saying sink in, thinking of Lancel Lannister as he did so. With Tywin dead and Cersei's children denounced as bastards, Jaime in the Kingsguard and Tyrion in exile, Lancel's dynastic worth was rising all the time. Now could be the time to remind him that he's only alive because Sansa of House Stark saved him from being trampled to death during the Battle of the Blackwater. His newfound piety may render him more humble than most of his kinsmen, more inclined to repay an act of selflessness. That was, if his faith hadn't addled his wits as well as rendered him useless in the bedchamber.

"I'll gladly swear fealty before all the lords of the North," she said. "For me and on behalf of my son. And I'll add my voice to yours, whenever you require it."

Robb rewarded her with a smile. "Good, I'm glad we understand each other."

He'd paid off his supporters using Bolton land and secured himself a new puppet to boot. But he believed himself right when he said she could do well. Securing House Darry for Daenerys would probably be easy enough, winning herself the friendship of the new Queen. Keeping him sweet in the Northern Council would ensure the safety of her House. It suited them both and he hoped she understood that.

Later that day, the Tyrell army arrived. Margaery had already been sent for and was traveling in easy stages toward her new home. It could be months before she finally arrived, which left him plenty of time to arrange the castle. The Boltons had already repaired the Great Hall, Main Keep, curtain walls, Guest Halls and Guard Halls. The Turrets needed repairing, which he set the builders to doing as soon as they arrived. The stables and kennels needed to be fully replaced and the library, burned the same night someone tried to kill Bran, also needed to be rebuilt.

It was as he set the builders to work that another man he took for a tradesman arrived. His face was a little weather-beaten, he was older than the rest with grey hair but sharp grey eyes. However, the fingers of one hand were cut off at the first knuckle.

"Forgive the intrusion, your grace," he said. "I am Ser Davos Seaworth, Lord Manderly requested that I sail to Skagos and return something quite precious to your grace."

Robb frowned, wondering what was going on as a boy stepped out from behind Ser Davos. He was almost thrice as tall as Robb remembered him, his auburn hair unkempt and his clothes tattered. All the same, it was definitely Rickon. Shaggydog followed him like a second shadow, green eyes glinting in the darkness. Robb's heart leapt into his throat, but the wolf growled ominously when he tried to hug his brother. Rickon was only six, and he looked up at Robb as if he were a total stranger.

Awkwardly, he cleared his throat and turned back to Ser Davos. "Thank you, Ser Davos. I, er, I appreciate it greatly."

Unable to help but notice the frosty reunion, Ser Davos raised a pained smile. "Give it time, your grace. I don't think he remembers much of his old life."

Sometimes, Robb felt the same.

* * *

Dead locusts, crisped over open fires and glazed in honey. They were left to dry in the sun, giving them a crunchy exterior. That was what many of Mereen's inhabitants were living on. In an act of solidarity with her people, Dany ordered the same. Insects and honey. There was no denying what they were and all around her the people starved. Those who weren't eating were the ones already dying. The Pale Mare still ran rampant in the poorer districts, even affecting many of her Unsullied. The dead were buried in pits or burned in pyres just beyond the city gates.

All the time, more refugees attempted to gain access to Mereen itself only to find the way blocked by Yunkish forces at sea and Astapor on land. Even the Qartheen were rumoured to be getting in on the act now and sending reinforcements to her enemies. No matter how hard she squinted, there was no end in sight.

Against advice to lock herself up in the great pyramid, she ventured out into the city if only to show her people that she had not abandoned them. It was a small act, and one made safe in the wake of making peace with the Sons of the Harpy. But it was act rewarded with faith and loyalty from those who had followed her here, those who'd placed their lives in her hands.

"None will desert you," Missandei assured her as they walked the streets. "They've come this far and they'll stay to the end."

But it wasn't just them. It was her, too. She had come all this way, struck her own path to the gates of Mereen, and she had to fight to her last breath to keep it. She was never a fool and she never thought it would be easy. Likewise, she just didn't think it would have been this hard.

"I promised them a golden future," she said. "And all I've delivered is dead insects."

"And honey," said Tyrion.

"What?"

"Dead insects and honey," he explained.

This was not the salve her moment of raw despair needed. "Oh!" she huffed, quite unable to think what to follow up her exclamation of frustration with. "Fuck the honey! See, this is so bad I even used a curse word."

"Use it again and I think Ser Barristan might put you over his knee," replied Tyrion, persisting in trying to be funny. "Isn't that right, Ser Barristan?"

"Luckily for her grace, I neglected to bring a slipper out with me," the old knight answered drily. "Using them to swat locusts, you see. I prefer them flat."

"You're not funny!" she protested.

"Missandei's laughing."

She was, too. Hiding her smile behind a dainty hand. However bad the reality was, it was good to see her cheered. In her past life, laughter was unheard of and she once more looked like the child she still is.

"And you sound like Sandor Clegane when you curse," Tyrion continued. "Did you notice that, Ser Barristan? Hardly a promising sign in a Queen."

"As long as she doesn't look like Sandor Clegane I think we're safe enough," Ser Barristan rejoined.

However much she tried, she couldn't join in the jovial mood. The easy banter washed off her back and her mood remained low as their journey progressed. They passed the elephants at the back of the Pyramid, who trumpeted at her as they went. Glumly, she wondered if there was enough of them to possibly feed the hungriest.

Down by the river, they could see the blockades. Yunkish ships preventing any food or reinforcements getting into the city. Before much longer, the people would be too weak to resist them and they'd just march on in and take it all away from her. As she considered the grim future, she felt Tyrion's hand taking her own.

"Come," he said, serious now. "Come with me."

Before she could protest, he led her back toward the pyramid, to a door at the river-facing entrance. Down stone steps, leading her through three stone arches and across a sloping ramp. She knew where he was taking her, now. They reached the heavy iron door, guarded by the Brazen Beasts who unlocked the chain for them. The door whined on its hinges as they admitted her and Tyrion to the dragon pit.

It was forty feet deep and large enough for almost a thousand men. Since her arrival, it housed only two rapidly growing dragons. It was Viserion she noticed first, clinging to the wall where he'd dug a lair for himself. She knew he had melted his chain but saw little point in replacing it. Rhaegal, however, was still bound.

"Why have you brought me here?" she asked.

Rhaegal whined at the sound of her voice, lifting his head to look at her. His bronze eyes disappeared momentarily as he blinked at her.

"To remind you of who you are," the dwarf replied.

"But I know who I am." Even the quavering tone of her answer made her sound full of self-doubt.

"Do you?" he challenged her.

Viserion scuttled down the wall, swinging his neck around so his face was inches from her own. Rhaegal, on the other hand, was picking over the carcass of an aurochs. She understood what Tyrion meant. She had been away from her children too long, she was slipping away from who she really was. Even touching Viserion's face was enough to give her a jolt.

"I cannot use them to burn our enemies," she said, at length. She'd brought these two to heel well enough, but Drogon remained bad tempered and stubborn but he did answer to her.

"That's not what I was suggesting," Tyrion gently pointed out. "But they should be visible. Remind them of who they're dealing with. They're dealing with you. The Mother of Dragons."

Rhaegal lashed his tail against his chains, the metallic echo ricocheted around the deep vaults of the chamber. It pained her to see them confined, but the memory of the child burned alive by Drogon was raw in her memory. But where was Drogon? He was always hers, the bond between them growing even in his absence.

"You didn't see my black dragon?" she asked, turning back to Tyrion.

He shook his head. "I'd have remembered if I did."

She let Rhaegal nuzzle against her, his warm face rubbing against her own. While he did that, Viserion snatched up the remains of the aurochs and gobbled them down greedily. It made her laugh, until Rhaegal lashed away from her and snapped at his brother in anger. Suddenly fearful, Tyrion backed away but Dany calmed her boys quickly enough to reassure him.

"When we return to the pyramid," he continued. "We will discuss a way to get ourselves out of this impasse. We will start working out our terms, places where we're willing to compromise. You might want to consider reopening the fighting pits and setting a date for your marriage to Hizdahr Zo Loraq."

A wedding would be a chance for all her people to celebrate. She didn't know what with, but she felt they could organise some supplies as a concession in return for a favour to the Yunkish forces. They already had Daario as a hostage, but there was bound to be something else she could do.

"You're right," she said, running her hand along Viserion's scales. "I promised myself I would not give in to despair. It's not what got me through the Red Wastes, or the loss of my husband. Despair's not what freed the slaves or conquered cities. Yet today, I feel despair finally got the better of me."

She felt embarrassed admitting it now. But Tyrion did not scorn her. "You're only human, Daenerys. And the situation is bleak, but at least you admit it's bleak. Others, like my sister, would bury their heads up their arses and pretend the bad things aren't even there. A little despair is better than a lifetime of denial."

"Cersei was a fool to cast you out."

"I quite agree."

Daenerys smiled again, feeling a little confidence returning to her. He was right. They needed to plan, rather than wait for their enemies to make the next move.

"Thank you," she said, timidly.

"For what?"

"This," she answered. "Just this."

It was hard for her to articulate it. She wanted to thank him for reminding her of who she was. Of what she meant, of what she was supposed to be doing. For pulling her out of the mire of politics and intrigue that had threatened to take her under. She felt like she had lost sight of what really mattered: her ragtag band of followers. Her company of exiles, misfits and down-at-heel victims who'd lost all hope until they came to her. Whatever it was they saw in her, she returned it with a love so tender she'd never known its like before. A tenderness that felt like it could stop her heart at any moment.

"Free them," she said, turning to her dragons. "They shall be visible again. I command that they be freed."

"That's more like it," Tyrion replied.

Even underground they had grown large. Left cooped up together and they'd start to tear each other apart and she couldn't have that. The dragon only has three heads; they couldn't afford to bite one off.

"You made me feel like something far better is just on the horizon," she said, turning to the dwarf again. They stepped aside to let the Brazen Beast men unfetter Rhaegal. "I don't know what that something better is, or how it'll get here. But I think I sense it coming."

Viserion was already free, but Rhaegal had to lash his tail at the chains again. He gave a violent shake as the last fetter came loose. Dany turned to him, running her hand under his scaly maw to sooth him.

"Are you ready?" Tyrion asked.

Daenerys answered: "I think I am."

They emerged from the dragon pit into the late afternoon sun, Rhaegal and Viserion barrelling them past them in the tunnel and bursting into the sky. The air was filled with their shrieks and cries, their sudden appearance drawing people into the streets to point and gasp. Daenerys emerged with Tyrion at her side, feeling taller and stronger. The tide was turning, she was getting closer to home. She could smell the change hanging heavy in the air and it was sweeter than a hundred perfumes.

* * *

Out of White Harbour, down the east coast to Braavos. From Braavos to Pentos, to Dorne. From Dorne they pulled away from Westeros, leaving their world far behind them. Asha sailed them expertly through the treacherous Step-Stones all the way south of Essos. Around Lys and further still past Volantis. Jon watched the city slip by as they pulled out into the sea after an overnight stop there.

"Robb's first wife was from Volantis, wasn't she?" he asked Sansa as they left.

"Yes," she confirmed. "Do you think we should have tried to find her family?"

"I wouldn't have known where to begin looking."

Time ticked by, weeks turned to months at sea. Every day he woke up and thought of home. He wondered what Robb was doing, whether he'd yet taken back Winterfell, or even if he had succeeded. He knew Sansa was worried too, although she kept her troubles and her fears largely to herself.

He passed the time learning to take other people's boats, like the Ironborn did when they fought at sea. Clumsy and more than a little worrying at first, Asha soon had him swinging from vessel to vessel. First in calm waters, then in choppier conditions to better get the hang of combat at sea. He fell overboard a few times, learning first hand the sheer terror of plunging into the open seas, only for Asha to drop a rope and fish him out again. He soon learned to avoid making mistakes while Theon learned to be himself again.

All the while, they sailed wide around the smoking ruins of Old Valyria. He returned to his own vessel with his new white wolf sail hanging from the mast, where Sansa watched the mysterious islands gliding past them from the prow of the ship.

"What would happen if we landed there?" she asked.

"Nothing good, little sister," he answered.

The smell of sulphur was carried on the breeze, emanating from the clouds of smoke that still belched out over the old Valyrian Freehold. In its day, the place had been a wonder of the universe. He'd heard tales of towers that rose into the sky, sphinxes and flocks of dragons. It was enough to pull him there, tempting him to set foot on its shores just to see if he could, to see what it was really like. But then, he had also heard tales of whole fleets vanishing in the Smoking Sea.

"Tyrion told me his uncle vanished in there," she continued, suppressing a shudder. "It's eerie."

She wasn't wrong, either. He couldn't see much of the land through the noxious smoke and they were miles away, anyway. But he glanced through a far-eye to try and see more. There was only tall cliffs and the smoke drew a thick veil over the lost wonders of their world. Every so often, he thought he heard a noise coming from the dead, silent islands but put it down to whatever volcanos were active there.

Their journey around the Valyrian peninsula continued until they reached the widest mouth of Slaver's Bay. The last leg of their travels and he was glad to be away from lost cities of Valyria. All the same, he watched them vanish, wishing he knew what lay beyond the plumes of smoke. It was then he saw it move. He frowned, thinking himself to be imagining things. Fire streaked across the sky followed by a deafening roar. A huge black beast took wing high above them, emerging from the smoke and soaring into the clear blue sky. Sansa screamed and Jon protectively threw himself on top of her just as another river of flame streaked through the sky. It spread its vast leathern wings, beating at the air so hard it disturbed the sea beneath their vessels.

"Seven hells!" Jon cursed.

"That's a fucking dragon!" Asha pointed out. "If that fucker sets my sails alight I'll drown it."

She would as well, he'd seen her in action enough to know that. All the same, it made him laugh. The dragon circled them, decided they weren't tasty enough and flew off into the distance towards Meereen. Pale, shaky, Sansa climbed to her feet and watched the dragon's departure.

"Maybe he's showing us the way?" she laughed. "Sweet of him really, if you consider it."

"Aye, very sweet," Jon retorted. He realised he was shaking himself. In fact, he admitted to himself he was struck dumb by the sight of it, which he could still see. A speck on the horizon, he could just make out the beast beating its wings as he flew north east. "Is it the Queen's dragon?"

"It must be. One of them, anyway," Asha answered.

In the shock of the dragon's spectacular appearance, he'd forgotten there were two more. Two more, possibly just as huge and fierce. For all he knew, that dragon could be the runt of the litter. All the same, he alone could still wipe out whole hosts of wights, Jon thought to himself. That dragon, Balerion reborn, could do it with one breath of fire. That terrifying brute could be the saviour of them all.


	28. Love and War

"The sooner we are married the sooner we can send a message to your enemies." Hizdahr was insistent. His cold, black eyes deepening into the great nothing of his soul as he spoke. It made Daenerys shiver in her Tokar.

"With all due respect, my lord, your marriage will not disperse the Yunkish fleet currently blockading Meereen's ports," Tyrion reasoned, he was barely visible over the counsel table inside the great pyramid. "And I cannot help but notice your use of possessive pronouns. Surely by 'your' enemies, you mean 'our' enemies? If you're to marry Queen Daenerys, her enemies are yours also. Share and share alike."

"Now is not the time to quibble over semantics, half-man- "

"Enough!" Daenerys cut in. "Betrothed or no, I will not have this counsel session descending into personal insults."

Everyone else around the table fell silent, all eyes turning to her. Only Hizdahr barely met her gaze, but she refused to relent. This session was called in an effort to resolve the siege and so far, it had yielding nothing. Meanwhile, the situation in the city grew worse. The weak and the vulnerable were dying in droves, mostly women and children. Dysentery was rampant in the slums and the refugees at the gates only swelled in number, only for them to be cut down by forces from hostile cities.

As for food, it was fast becoming a memory. The grain stores were almost empty and they had barely enough to cover the most basic of rations for the next week. Reports had come through of bakers padding out their meagre supplies with sawdust while trapped rats sold for a small fortune on the black market. Cats and dogs had already been turned into stews in a desperate effort to ward off the debilitating hunger that was afflicted young, old, rich and poor alike. That was her real enemy now, not even the Sons of the Harpy could afflict this much chaos on Meereen.

But while the others around the table may have squabbled, it pained Daenerys to know she had no solutions of her own to offer. The only sliver of hope she had had over the last few days was the return of Drogon. He had crash-landed on the side of the great pyramid two nights previously, waking her instantly. His face was pressed against her window, his breath fogging the glass.

"Now that Drogon has returned- "

"No," Hizdahr cut her off. "If you turn that dragon on the Yunkish forces, it will only inflame the situation."

"I think that's the point."

While Tyrion's witticism may have cut Hizdahr down to size, Daenerys still bristled against her future husband's interruptions. She looked at him a moment, wondering what life would be like once they were married. He was already argumentative, he already acted like he was doing her a great favour. After the exchange of vows, he would be unbearable.

Meanwhile, she tried to think. A process made difficult by the sound of raised voices coming from beyond the walls. Somewhere nearby, a horn sounded. She sent up a silent prayer that Drogon wasn't adding to her problems and resorting to eating human flesh again.

"If I cannot deploy my most effective weapon, then what can I do?" she asked, looking Hizdahr in the eye.

He opened his mouth to reply, but the sound of his words was lost in a resounding crash from the street, followed by a second blast of a horn. Everyone in the room looked up again, Ser Barristan frowning as he began to suspect something bad. Missandei moved to Dany's side as she rose to her feet. Just at that second, Grey Worm appeared in the doorway, addressing her in his customary short, declarative sentences. He always got to the point.

"More ships. Attacking now. Unknown."

* * *

The force of the impact knocked Sansa off her feet, sending her sprawling across the deck. Jon rushed to help her up and hurry her below decks. As they went, he looked back over his shoulder as the ship the Seabitch had rammed splintered and sank below the surface of the choppy waters. It all happened so fast. There was a deafening splintering of wood as a gaping hole appeared in the Yunkish ship's rear and the water began to boil and seethe as it rushed to fill the hole, swallowing the galley and all its crew alike. Some tried to swim, but the current dragged them down effortlessly. One false step and he knew that could happen to them.

"Stay with Asha," he told Sansa below deck. "She knows what she's doing and won't let anything bad happen to you."

She looked pale and shaken as he led her into the cabin at the rear of the ship. "But where are you going?"

"I need to get back to our own galley, but you stay here," he reiterated. "I'll be fine, you just look after yourself."

Although she had changed a lot since their childhood, he assumed she still didn't know an awful lot about either naval warfare or Ironborn battle tactics. Neither did he, really. But he resolved to make the best of it.

Second-guessing his own ignorance on the matter, Sansa tried to reason with him. "You saw what happened to that Yunkish ship, Jon. Stay with me and we'll be both be safe."

But he couldn't do that. Both of them knew it, really. However, before he left her there, he put his arms around her and held her tight. He'd said all the words of encouragement that he could, so hastened back on deck without wasting any more time. He paused to tell Theon where she was, but only because there was literally no one else available. Asha was still at the command, several of the men she'd brought with her were already invading another of the Yunkish ships and another had been hit with a missile of blazing pitch. The burning enemy ship was sending up thick plumes of smoke, sinking fast.

"Jon!" Asha called out to him as he passed. "Wait there."

"What is it?"

"We're sending in a fire ship to clear a path," she said breathlessly. "Ravenfeeder will do. After that, we're sending in the dromonds to cut a path through the enemy. Get back to your own ship and prepare to engage."

He was no more accustomed to naval warfare than Sansa was. However, over the last few months, he had learned to put his trust in the Ironborn and the sailors from White Harbour. He followed their command without question. And soon, the small dromonds were deployed, knifing through the waters of Slaver's Bay and passing beneath the great Yunkish galleys. The Yunkish didn't even notice them until it was all too late and then Ravenfeeder, already smouldering, erupted into flames in the midst of the Yunkish lines.

At the moment of implosion, Jon was scrambling up the side of his own ship the Queen of the North. He clung on for dear life as the ship listened and pitched on violent waters, sending up a huge wave that crashed over him, almost dragging him back down again. Undeterred, he continued his ascent and scrambled over the Queen's gunwale, only to find her almost overrun with Yunkish soldiers.

Without a second's thought, Dark Sister was in his hands and the blade flashed as he lunged it into the throat of the first soldier he passed. He kicked out at a second, sending him spinning over the gunwale and into the waters below. Another he despatched with a swift blow to the throat that left him completely decapitated. The severed head slid across the deck as the seas rolled, leaving long streaks of glittering red in its wake. As he swiftly dispatched a fourth and a fifth, the Queen was sailing up the river to Meereen, the dromonds having already smashed a path through Yunkai's lines.

However, his fight to regain control of the Queen wasn't over yet. Men from White Harbour and the ship's captain overpowered three invaders who'd tried to set the mast alight. Jon rushed to help them, cutting down one enemy soldier before he could thrust his sword through the captain's back. Before too long, they had the Queen of the North secured again and they were beginning to breach the siege lines at last.

Asha's dromonds were already clear, the bowmen on board picking off Yunkish sailors as they tried to flee their vessels. But all was chaos. Thick black smoke was choking the air, reducing visibility to ridiculously low levels. All the same, his blood was up.

"I'm coming with you," he said as he saw the captain lower a rowboat so they could board another dromond.

"Don't be stupid," the captain replied. "You've never fought at sea before."

"What am I doing now, then?" Jon challenged him, already in the boat. "Let me take one enemy ship, that's all. Then I'll come right back."

He gave his captain no choice as the boat was already being lowered to sea level, where their new dromond awaited. From there, they scrambled aboard and hunkered down behind the shields lining the smaller, faster ships gunwale and they set off at full strength well behind enemy lines. On the other side of the wide river, Ravenfeeder was still burning and had set a number of Yunkish galleys alight. Burning men were dropping from the masts, dead before they even hit the water. A lucky few had managed to swim ashore, but the only direction they could go in was toward Meereen itself. He hoped Daenerys Targaryen was ready for them.

The oarsmen on the dromond rowed at full strength, with Jon taking up an oar himself until they pinpointed a Yunkish galley that was trying to breach the city's river defences. Before the captain gave the command, they were already setting a course straight for it.

"Over there, toward the river gate!" the man bellowed over the sound of burning ships and screaming men.

Ironborn bowmen were already in place, picking off Yunkish bowmen who attempted to return the compliment with volleys of their own arrows. Jon heard them splashing into the water, sinking without trace as their weighted heads left them with no chance of recovery. Before the Yunkish knew what was truly upon them, grappling hooks smashed into the sides of their ships and the Ironborn were halfway on board, scrambling up the sides of the great galley as if they were born half-spider. Fearless, even when their comrades were hit and falling back into the seas below them, they kept going and stopped for nothing. It was an honour for them, to die in battle on the sea and sink back into the arms of their Drowned God.

Jon did his best to imitate them as he too began ascending up the side of the galley. More than once, an arrow almost hit him and before he scrambled over the gunwale of the galley, one actually got him. Embedded in his left shoulder, he yanked out the barbed arrowhead before the pain had a chance to register. On board the enemy ship, they attacked the crew with sword, axe and whatever else they came prepared with. As he took out the ship's captain with a slash of his sword to the man's throat, he couldn't help but wince as an Ironborn fighter smashed in a man's skull with a spiked morning star.

By the time they had control of the ship, the decks were slick with spilt Yunkish blood and Jon's shoulder was aching horribly. Breathless and still exultant from the heat of battle, he paused by the mast pole and looked up through the thinning smoke. Meereen lay before him like a promised land. A jumble of streets and houses, a great Harpy statue sitting atop a vast pyramid that loomed over the city below. Lesser pyramids spiked in the distance, puncturing the hot blue skies overhead. Over the last few months, he had seen many strange and foreign places. But nothing like this and he savoured the sight before being pulled from his momentary haze.

"Do you want to feed the fishes?"

"Huh?" Jon turned to face the battle-scarred Ironborn who'd addressed him.

"That's what you'll be doing if you don't get off this ship."

He was right, the ship was sinking already after the Ironborn and smashed a hole in its hull. Snapped out of his reverie, he scrambled after the others, preparing to drop back into the dromond and return to the Queen of the North.

"Those Yunkish cunts are trying to take out Seabitch," someone said as they hit the water and swam for the dromond. "Should give Asha something to play with for an hour or so."

Once back on the dromond, Jon tried to get the Seabitch in view. Sansa was on there, he had left her there thinking she would be safe. "My sister," he spluttered. "I need to get my sister."

"Ah, she's fine," the Ironborn assured him.

It didn't work.

* * *

Alarm bells rang through the whole city, bringing the populace out onto the streets in terror. Many tried to flee for the city gates, forgetting they were blockaded on land as much as at sea. Dany knew if any tried to make it out of the land gates, they would be cut down by enemy forces before they even made into the dying pastures beyond. She tried to restore calm as she made her way through the streets mounted on the silver that Drogo had gifted her on their wedding day. Lost in panic, none listened to her.

As she made her way to the water's edge, she tried to see for herself what was happening. But, even through a far eye, all she could see was smoke and flames on the water. She saw a Yunkish ship list and roll, before being swallowed by the waves and hope soared in her heart. The siege lines were being smashed, supplies could finally come through … but only if the newcomers were friendly.

"Who are they?" she asked Grey Worm.

His answer was unhelpful. "Unknown. Strangers."

She spurred her mount to higher ground, no longer trying to quell the panic breaking out in the city. From uphill, she lifted the far eye again and tried to get the newcomers back into view. But the first thing she noticed was the Yunkish soldiers now fleeing in terror, right into the arms of her Unsullied who cut them down without a second's thought. She did not try to intervene, there could be no mercy for the men who had come within a hair's breadth of starving her and her entire city.

Through the far eye, she could make out Ser Barristan leading the attack on fleeing Yunkish soldiers, stopping them from gaining access and preventing any looting or pillage. A huge boom echoed from across the water, drawing her attention back to the ships in the wide bay. A ship had been set alight and was now plunging through what remained of the Yunkish siege lines. Through the far eye, she could see its huge silk sails. Black, but decorated with a large painted Kraken of gold. We do not sow… she read the words and laughed aloud, giddy with relief.

"House Greyjoy," she called to Grey Worm. "It's House Greyjoy, from Westeros. From my homeland."

Tears welled in her lilac eyes, blurring her view through the far eye as the fireship wreaked havoc on the open waters. Several Yunkish galleys surrounding it caught fire, sending panicking soldiers plunging into the sea. Most drowned; those who made it to land would be cut down by the Unsullied. Then, the fireship itself was consumed by flame before sinking out of sight. Only thick black smoke remained, obscuring her view of the others.

Her dragons stirred. Rhaegal and Viserion had set up lairs in two of the smaller pyramids. Drogon was only just back from his aimless flights over Slaver's Bay. Now all three of them circled high above her, screeching to each other in anxious agitation. Drogon lowered, hovering over her protectively.

Dany watched him for a moment, hesitating for only a brief second before she called out his name.

"Drogon!"

She called over the bells, the roar of fires and the distant ships sinking into the violent waters. And he heard her, all the same. He swooped down, landing at her side and greeting her with a loud roar that left her ears ringing. She had already dismounted the silver and now approached her dragon, running her hands down his warm neck. He twisted his throat around, trying to keep her in view of his smouldering red eyes. It seemed they had reached a silent understanding.

"It's time," she said, addressing him in their mother tongue. Before she could start doubting herself, she scrambled up his wing and onto his back and gave the command. "Sōvēs"

For a full minute, she felt like she was being rolled down a bumpy hill in a barrel. She tightened her grip on Drogon's back spines, holding her breath as he gathered speed by crashing along the headland they were on. Then he leapt over the edge of the hill and the ground vanished. Her heartbeat raced as they swooped out over the seas and only the wind rushing into her face prevented her from crying out in triumph.

Higher and higher up, she swerved Drogon around he obeyed her command. This moment was everything she dreamed it would be, with Viserion and Rhaegal forming up behind them. Together, they flew over the city in the same direction her terrified populace tried to flee. They passed over the slums where the Pale Mare still ran rampant and over the walls, where land forces from Slaver's Bay had terrorised her innocent people. She saw them all spread out below her, small but multitudinous like swarms of gleaming ants.

Hizdahr's dire warnings of that morning's council session echoed in her head, but the devils could take that man for all she cared. She directed Drogon lower, getting the hostile forces in the firing range and gave the command without hesitation.

"Dracarys!"

A river of flame streamed from her mount, engulfing the enemy and sending them scattering into the plains beyond the city walls. She could not hear their cries and screams over the sound of the wind rushing in her ears, but she didn't have to either. They scattered and the survivors tried to form up and take Drogon down with a volley of arrows. Only a few of them glanced off his belly, tickling his thick scales and little else.

This time Rhaegal joined in, breathing a great stream of fire on the fleeing enemy while Viserion gave chase. Most of the army didn't get a chance to flee and were scorched into dust where they stood. Meanwhile, the flames had taken hold and a hundred small fires now broke out around the plains. But they did not worry her. The dragons had broken the land siege and that was all that mattered.

Despite what everyone else said, she knew she should have done this sooner. Tyrion was right. There was no point having dragons unless she was prepared to actually use them. Otherwise, they were little more than exotic pets.

They came crashing back to earth about a mile from the city gates, Drogon too tired to fly her any further. So, she left him foraging for food among the hastily abandoned battle camp while Viserion and Rhaegal remained airborne and chasing down the fleeing enemy forces. Still walking on air, she made her way back to the city gates. Only to remember, as soon as she reached them, that they were still locked.

* * *

Sansa let out a shrill scream as the door to her cabin smashed inwards, revealing a foreign soldier from only the gods knew where. At the sight of him, she fell silent and didn't even dare to breathe as they eyed each other. In his right hand, the curved blade of an arakh shone sinisterly. A large dagger was sheathed at his hip. Yet, she knew enough about soldiers to know he wasn't going to kill her right away. He was going to have his fun, first.

She tried to back away as far as she could until her back was pressed flat against the wall of the cabin. She could try to reason with the man, or buy him off, but they shared no common language and she had no ready cash. Even so, he'd take the cash and rape her anyway. Terror filled her all over again as he took a measured step forwards, stripping her naked with his gleaming black eyes.

"What do you want?"

She tried talking anyway, playing for time until she could find a way around him. Now that he had moved away from the door, there was a little more space to move. But, the only effect her words seemed to have was to break the spell that held them apart. He lunged at her, grabbing a fistful of her dress as she darted out of his reach. She grabbed the first thing that came to hand, an old oil lamp, and smashed it over his head.

"Help!" she screamed as loud as she could. But there was still a pitched battle going on up on the deck as Asha and her crew fought to regain control of Seabitch.

Her resistance, her cries for help, only inflamed her attacker even more. But she managed to dodge past him and shoving him as hard as she could in the chest, sending him reeling backwards. With her heart in her mouth, she ran for it, only for him to grab her ankles and trip her up. She hit the ground with a loud thump and pain shot through her hands and wrists, where she had tried to break her fall.

Now it was worse, as two more attackers had been waiting outside. Bringing the number to three, they gathered around her like hyenas surrounding their prey. She froze in terror, but one of the men grabbed her ankles and dragged her back in the cabin while another unbuckled his belt ready to get to work on her. She hadn't been this helpless since King's Landing, the riot when Sandor had come to her rescue. But Sandor was thousands and thousands of miles away now.

And she wasn't helpless anymore. She grabbed a plank of wood that had once been the cabin door and smashed it around one man's head, while another one's throat suddenly exploded, sending a shower of blood spraying all over the cabin as a blade cut through the gristle and sinew of his throat. He fell to the ground, dead. In his place, Theon stood tall as he wrenched his blade free and kicked out at another of her attackers, the one she felled with the wood. He drove his sword through the man's heart before punching the third in the face. Senseless and dazed, the final attacker staggered backwards until Brienne finished him off with a sword through the gut.

Faint with relief, she fell into Theon's arms, breathing so hard she could barely wring the words of thanks from her throat. She could feel him trembling, he was trembling almost as much as she was. But he had saved her life and her virtue.

"Theon," she said, looking up at him. She could only say his name as if daring him to contradict her.

"R-reek," he stammered. "R-reek- "

"Is dead," she finished the sentence for him.

* * *

Daenerys almost got stuck trying to squeeze herself through the city gates in an effort to get back in. Then Rhaegal tried to melt the bars with his own dragon flame before Viserion smashed them in with the force of a blow from his tail. The gateposts had been reduced to rubble, but there was no need to worry about that anymore. Not now the enemy forces had been sent scattering. All the same, she set some workmen among the refugees to rebuilding them with the promise of greater rations.

She mounted a horse she found running loose through the streets and set off back toward the port. Smoke from the battle she had left behind was now rolling across the city in a thick, black cloud. She could hear the bells still tolling but the people seemed to have settled. Nevertheless, she galloped through the streets with all haste, not stopping until she reached the great pyramid.

She slowed to a trot, before dismounting at the rear of the pyramid that looked out over the wide mouth of the river. All around her, the bodies of the slain Yunkish soldiers lay scattered about like detritus from a storm. Their ships were sunk, with barely one or two having successfully escaped the Ironborn onslaught. Yunkai was demolished and the siege was over. Her happiness was only compounded by the sight of Ser Barristan cantering up the embankment in her direction.

Assured of his safety, she dismounted her horse and led him up to the headlands to get a good view of what was happening at sea. By the time she made it there, the smoke was starting to thin, revealing great hulking galleys all adorned with the krakens of House Greyjoy. Smaller, swifter dromonds were scuttling up the river and into the city. And Quaithe's prophecy replayed in her head: 'First comes the pale made and after her the lion. Then comes the Kraken, the little bird and sapphire maid. With them, the white wolf…'

The breath caught in her throat as the ship materialised from within a thick pall of smoke, powered along by twenty oarsmen until it was in broad daylight. The sigil was a blur, at first, that soon formed into the head of a snarling white wolf on a pitch-dark sail of black silk. From the top of the white wolf sail, Daenerys' eyes travelled down the length of the mast to where a lone man stood on the prow of the ship, his features too distant for her to discern but she could see he was dressed all in black. He was transfixed by something above her, probably the dragons who now circled the peak of the pyramid.

Meanwhile, she picked out the name of the ship: the Queen of the North. She read the words painted on the sail: Winter is Coming.

"House Stark."

She and Ser Barristan spoke in unison, while Tyrion materialised at their side. The gods alone knew where he'd been during the battle, but he was safe and whole but for the missing nose.

"Oh, look. My former wife's come to rescue me. I never knew she cared."

Daenerys stifled a laugh. "Love and war always did go hand in hand."

"Little birds are easily underestimated," Ser Barristan retorted.

"Little bird," Dany repeated, turning sharply to Ser Barristan. "Who is the sapphire maid?"

Both men looked back at her blankly. Meanwhile, something had caught Ser Barristan's eye.

"Seven hells, Tyrion. It is Sansa. Look, onboard Seabitch. I can make out her hair."

"No," Tyrion retorted. "Not a chance. Oh, wait… Actually, that could be her. That shade of ginger is very eye-catching, isn't it?"

Daenerys could no longer contain herself. "What are we still doing up here when they're disembarking down there. Come on! I want to meet them, to find out why they've come."

Without waiting for them, she nudged the horse with her heels and began the ascent to port.

* * *

Never more pleased to be back on dry land, Jon joined Sansa as soon as his feet hit the ground. She was shaken, still pale from fright, but steady on her feet as they wrapped their arms around each other. Immediately, she told him of how Theon had saved her life with Brienne's help. The Maid of Tarth backed the story up with a solemn, silent nod of the head. Perhaps, he thought to himself, he might come around to some of Theon's more admirable qualities after all.

Asha joined them, still smeared with Yunkish blood but looking thoroughly unfazed by it all. Theon was still tremulous and timid but now stood shoulder to shoulder with the rest of them. The captain of the Manderly fleet was last and they left their men to rest onboard their vessels.

"Er, what now?" asked Asha.

Jon stifled a laugh. "I have no idea. I don't suppose we can just roll on into that Pyramid and say: how'd you do?"

"I don't think we need to worry about that," said Sansa, nodding into the distance. "There's people coming."

They looked important, too. All three dismounted their horses as they approached, only to be joined by a fourth. Two men and two women, one with long silver-gold hair. That had to be Queen Daenerys, he thought to himself. But it was one of the men who caught his eye, recognition hitting home with a resounding clunk in his head.

"Oh, Sansa!" he said, smiling.

"Oh, no," she replied. "I don't know what to say to him."

Before she could ruminate too long on the matter, the fourth person stepped forward. She was only a girl, not much older than Arya at Jon's estimation. And, although clearly foreign, she addressed them in perfect Common Tongue.

"Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen, Mother of Dragons and Breaker of Chains, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea and rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, welcomes you to Meereen. The great pyramid is yours, my lords and ladies."

Jon turned from the child to the Queen herself, leading a chestnut charger by the bridle as she approached them. She fixed him with lilac eyes, pale purple in the setting sun. He remembered a time, long ago, when Sansa had taught him how to speak with ladies. But all that sage advice was coming to nought, at that moment.

"Your Grace," he said as the host knelt before the Queen. "I am Jon of House Stark, with my sister Lady Sansa. My companions are Theon and Asha of House Greyjoy. We came seeking an audience with your grace."

A hand as pale as milkglass appeared before him, which he kissed and rose to his feet again. He found himself looking into her eyes and she returning that look with every bit of his intensity.

"After the service you and your companions have done us this day, you can have anything," she replied. "All of you, rise. You will have lodgings in my halls for as long as you like."

That was a good start, he thought to himself. Then it got better as he remembered Sansa's lessons, from all those years ago.

"And that's a very pretty name," he blurted out.

Daenerys had been about to greet the others but stopped and looked back at him, a frown marring her brow. "Er, thanks. 'Jon''s a very pretty name, too."

Everyone else looked at him like he'd gone mad, even Sansa. You told me to do that, he thought to himself as she tried to stop herself from laughing as she and Daenerys kissed each other's cheeks. Instead, he went to find Tyrion. An old friend from a long time ago, one he never thought to see again.


	29. The Winter of Discontent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in getting this story updated here. It's been a rough few weeks.

Nature dictated that Margaery move slowly. A combination of atrocious weather and a rapidly advancing pregnancy was hard to ignore. However, if she had a talent at all, it was an uncanny ability to make the best of things and just keep on keeping on. As soon as they heard the news that Robb was back in Winterfell, they set off from Barrowton in slow, easy stages. They stopped overnight in inns and taverns in the small towns that dotted the northern landscape. But the region was sparsely populated, necessitating the occasional night under the stars. Regardless of where she slept, she woke each morning a little larger than the night before with an aching back and sore feet. Then she carried on. Her baby, come what may, would be born in Winterfell and nowhere else.

Between stops, while travelling the King's Road, she met her people. They were wary of their new southron Queen. Now a Stark but a Lannister in a previous existence, she didn't blame them for thinking her colours ran too easily. When she thought on it more, she could not recall a single Tyrell to venture this far north. The Manderlys were originally from the Reach, but that was centuries ago. The occasional one or two joined the watch, but that hardly counted. It was without a doubt, therefore, she concluded that she was the first Tyrell to occupy the high seats of Winterfell. When she fell asleep at night, she dreamed she could hear the old Winter Kings' mocking laugher rocking their frozen graves.

Being the first always stirred her competitive streak. It was never enough to just be first, she had to also be the best. With that in mind, she didn't hide from the wary eyes that watched her retinue pass. She rode out front, with the golden rose flying alongside the direwolf, where she could be seen and approached. If they saw people in need, they distributed alms and aid where they could. She asked after their businesses and livelihoods, which had all been adversely affected by the region's political unrest. All the while, she knew her limitations and made no false promises in light of the great wars yet to come.

"We really do need to get a move on," Olenna warned her, one evening. "You're eight months in and your time is fast approaching."

Most noblewomen at her stage were lying in state, waiting out the rest of their pregnancies in the closeted comfort of their own private chambers. Had she been living in ordinary times, she might even have done the same and been eternally grateful for it. But the times she found herself in were far from ordinary and there was a job to be done.

"All is well, grandmother," she assured her. "We're only ten miles from Winterfell and now we have House Cerwyn with us, they will be able to get us there faster. They know the roads here."

Lady Jonelle was already at Winterfell, having gone there to swear fealty to Robb. But her kinsman and heir, Francis Cerwyn, had readily come to their aid.

Olenna was still unconvinced. "Ten miles through blizzards and heavy snow, howling winds and along with poor roads fallen into neglect, my dear. It will feel like a hundred miles on any normal road."

"Do you want to go on ahead?" She was worried in case her elderly grandmother was finding it hard going for her own reasons.

"I'm tough as old boots, you know that. But if you want to birth this babe in Winterfell itself, you will take my advice."

That night, the Winter Kings laughed at her again. A southron flower trying to tough it out in the northern plains. Roses have no place among wolves.

"You heard what those people said about Lady Catelyn," said Margaery as their journey continued the next day. "Many say they had the impression she never particularly liked the North. Or that she was there and did her duty as any good lady would, all the while, never really adapting to them or trying to fit in. One said she treated them like foreigners. I don't want the same to be said of me, Grandmother."

Olenna laughed drily. "You'll never be one of them. I think the last Lady Stark knew that and chose to live with it. It will be twice as hard for you, my dear. You don't get much farther south than the Reach. It's another world to these people."

"But I can still try to adapt to their world," she insisted. "And by the old gods and the new, I will have my babe draw its first breath in the halls of Winterfell and nowhere else."

However, it was never going to be that simple. It began a few days later and three miles from Winterfell. The retinue had crested a hill and she caught her first glimpse of the castle that was to be her new home. It was small on the horizon but sprawling over another hilltop and looking down over a deep valley. The largest castle in all of Westeros, if she remembered her lessons right.

Initially, she tried to dismiss the cramps as the false contractions she had been warned about by others. But where those had faded, these grew steadily stronger. Suddenly hot and flustered, she got out of the litter and began walking at its side. With her gaze fixed on Winterfell, she focused all her energy on getting closer and closer. She grew hotter still, to the point where she peeled off her cloak and draped it over the shoulder of a mystified guard.

"I think you need to keep that on," said Arya. She had ridden up from Barrowton and now brought her horse to a slow walk to match Margaery's.

Margaery's reply was final. "I'm fine."

If she walked, she knew she could ease the cramps. It was only her muscles seizing up from inactivity. But that didn't explain the blood. Droplets of it spattered into the snow, shining like rubies as it quickly froze in the death-like cold. Cold she no longer felt as her temperature defied nature.

"My Lady, you're bleeding," Arya sounded almost pleading.

Olenna banged her walking stick on the root of the litter, a signal for the bearers to stop. "Margaery, listen to me. You need to get back in the litter and lie down. It's happening. The baby is coming."

In response, Margaery picked up her pace. It was nothing. It would pass. If she just exercised and stretched her legs. She was certain of it. Even when Arya slid down from her saddle and tried to block her path, she sidestepped the girl and carried on undeterred.

"I'm fine," she repeated. "All is well."

But all was not well. Her cramps grew worse, eventually forcing her to stop and catch her breath. Water was leaking down her legs, the next undeniable signal that her time had come. Winterfell was still small on the horizon, shrouded in mist and hampered by falling snow.

"It is too early," she said. "The babe cannot come now."

"I know I only had one," Olenna replied, following her granddaughter from the safety of a litter. "I'm hardly an expert. But I've been around long enough to know babies generally come when they are ready."

"We can still make it to Winterfell," said Arya, optimistically. "But look, you need to get back on the litter. You'll never be able to walk it."

Breathless now, Margaery steadied herself against a nearby tree. As soon as she stopped, however, the pain lanced through her again and worse than ever. It was only going to get worse.

"Seven hells," she cried, her words choked and forced through gritted teeth. "Just get there. We need to get there."

She opened her eyes again, tears blurring her vision too much to get Winterfell in view.

* * *

Sansa watched the dragons circle overhead, trying to pick out which was which as Daenerys identified them for her. The huge black one was Drogon. Bronze and green was Rhaegal and the white one was Viserion. She committed them to memory, marking them out in her head. It was still a remarkable sight after a full two days in Meereen, much of which she'd slept through due to sheer exhaustion after months at sea.

"They're extraordinary," she remarked, still tracking Drogon's progress. "How large do they grow?"

"They never stop growing, so long as they have food and freedom," the Queen answered.

She looked at Sansa curiously. At first, she thought she just wanted her reaction to her miraculous 'babies'. But there was more to it than that.

"I had a certain image in my head of what people from Westeros look like," said Daenerys. "No offence, but you look nothing like how I imagined the Northern people."

Sansa couldn't help but laugh. "How do you imagine Northerners? Savages with clubs and bear skins?"

She didn't mean it to sound mocking, but a sadness came over the Queen. Her smile died, her lilac eyes turned downwards. "I knew a Northerner, once. I loved him dearly, but not the same way he did me. I miss him a lot."

"Who was it? Perhaps I know him."

"Ser Jorah. I don't think you do know him."

"Mormont?" she asked. "I don't know Ser Jorah, but I know the Mormonts. They are our dearest friends. Jon fought alongside Ser Jorah's father. But Ser Jorah was exiled for taking slaves. My father had no choice, and I hope he understands that."

It hardly mattered if he wasn't around anymore. But she could imagine the poisoned talk he could have been whispering in Daenerys' ear about them. Either way, their discussion was cut short as she noticed Tyrion and Ser Barristan making their way through the gardens. It seemed they were all congregating there while the relief of the city continued.

The Ironborn had sailed out again, on a mission to secure food from neighbouring cities. They had already brought in cod to be salted and livestock to be slaughtered. Now they needed grain and she could only imagine how the Ironborn were going to set about securing it. Meanwhile, the Unsullied had been set to assisting, providing cover in case of attack.

"Do you mind if I speak with Lord Tyrion?" asked Sansa. "It's just, we were married once and we haven't had time to speak."

She saw that maddening glimmer of sympathy in the Queen's eyes. The one everyone used to look at her after her forced wedding _. 'Someone like you with someone like_  him' they seemed to say.

"Of course."

She bobbed a curtsey before leaving the Queen's side, then turned to where Tyrion was slowly making his way across the lawns. She thought perhaps his back was troubling him again. Or his legs, that often ached when he had to walk for too long. All the same, he raised a smile at her approach.

"You do turn up in the strangest of places," she said, by way of greeting.

Upon their reunion, Ser Barristan sensed his presence becoming redundant and took his leave of them.

"I'm here and you're here," Tyrion replied. "Looks like we have that in common, my lady."

There was just a moment of silence before Sansa raised a smile and made a confession. "It's lovely to see you again. I believed you were dead."

He smiled back, his old smile she remembered, twisted by the scars on his face. "And that's something else we have in common. On both counts. Shall we?"

He gestured toward the pyramid, meaning to go inside where they could speak privily. "I think we shall, my lord."

It was all still so strange to her. The pyramids in which the wealthy lived, the colours and the smells. The people and customs made her feel like she was in another world and she felt like she could grow to love it. She could never have imagined herself coming to a place like this and it was much more exciting than reading about it in a storybook.

"Did you hear about Cersei?" asked Sansa as they entered the empty throne room of the Great Pyramid. "She armed the Faith Militant thinking to use them against the Tyrells, only to get arrested herself. Last we heard, she was being paraded naked through the streets of King's Landing."

Tyrion let out a bark of laughter as he summoned a servant for wine. "This definitely calls for a celebration. How very like Cersei to be stricken on her own staff. My father had the measure of her: not as clever as she thinks she is. Now I think she's half-mad to go with it." Once they had wine, they sat on a bench mid-way up the steps to Daenerys' throne. "But forget my sister. I think I want to hear about your brother. Last I heard, he was dead. Now he's married to Margaery Tyrell and taking back the North. That sounds like an interesting story."

It was a long story too, and by the time she had explained everything he was on his third glass of wine. However, his capacity for the drink was such that he was unaffected and still listening attentively as she made a confession of her own. "Petyr Baelish was in on the plot to frame you for Joffrey's murder."

"Really?" Tyrion laughed. "I'm shocked, my lady. Tell me something I don't know."

"I killed him."

Tyrion choked and spluttered. Whether on the wine he was mid-way through swallowing or his earlier sarcasm, Sansa couldn't tell. However, she couldn't sit by and watch him suffer so she reached out and rubbed his back. "You did ask me to tell you something you don't know, my lord. So there it is, I killed Petyr Baelish."

"You did what?" he said, once he had regained a little of his composure. "How? What did you do? I thought that gurning gutter-rat would outlive us all. Oh, just wait until I tell Varys."

"Petyr only framed you because your execution would leave me vulnerable," she explained. "He knew he could get me alone, bring me to the Vale and use me to secure the North for him. He wanted to kill Robert Arryn too, but he's my cousin. He sought to take advantage and that's the thing you taught me, isn't it? Not to let others push me around. So, I kept the hairnet used to smuggle in the poison and brought it with me after I fled and you were arrested. I used the poison on him."

"So, everyone knows it wasn't me?" said Tyrion, his voice barely above a whisper.

Sansa smiled. "You're in the clear. No one can speak ill of you … Although, Tywin-"

"Tywin be damned," Tyrion cut in. "A beaten dog bites back. He knew that as well as anyone."

They drank together in silence for a minute or two. Every so often, he turned to look at her but seemed lost for words. Until he hit upon the right note. "They underestimated us both. But here we are, on the right side of history. I think we can drink to that."

Sansa refilled their glasses. "I think so, too."

"And here's something else to celebrate, my lady," Tyrion continued. "I free you from whatever vows you swore to me on the day we were wed. I free you to take another husband and find love where you can. All I ask in return is that you do the same for me."

"Gladly," she replied as their glasses clinked together. "And I pray you find a woman worthy of you."

Their marriage had never been consummated, rendering it null and void anyway. And she heard, once, there had been another woman in his life. Not Shae, the whore. Someone else, long ago, back at Casterly Rock. Maybe she was looking for him and he for her? Sansa did not feel at liberty to ask. But, whatever the case, she really did hope they would one day find each other again.

* * *

"Your Grace."

At the sound of her address, Daenerys turned to find Jon Stark approaching her. They were still in the gardens, although Tyrion and Sansa had slinked off together. But the day was a fine one and she felt younger and freer than she had in long, long time. He inclined his head in a show of deference, but she soon waved the gesture away.

As he stood at full height, she wondered what to make of him. His father had been her family's enemy, fighting against her brother at the Trident. But he was not Eddard Stark and it had been him, Jon, she had seen first smashing through Yunkai's siege lines. For that alone, she would always be grateful to him and to Asha Greyjoy.

"Lord Stark," she returned the greeting and offered him a place under the shade. "Would you like some cakes? They're from the first batch."

He seemed solemn, even shy. She hadn't expected that in a Northman any more than she had expected Sansa's beauty and refinement in a Northern woman. Viserys always talked about them as if they were savages. Meanwhile, Jon was unbuckling his sword belt.

"This is a gift for you," he said, sitting beside her.

A canvass had been set up in the manner of a shelter and it was under that they both settled. He took one of the sweet cakes she offered while she studied the sword. It was beautiful, crafted from Valyrian steel and embossed with the sigil of her House. That was strange, she thought to herself. House Targaryen only had two such swords and both were long lost to time. In wonderment, she turned it over in her hands and drew the blade a little further from its scabbard.

"It's beautiful and I cannot thank you enough," she said, letting the steel catch the light. "Is it a replica? How did you come by it?"

What he said next knocked her for six.

"It's Dark Sister." He was between mouthfuls and she was patient enough to give him a few seconds to swallow his food. But only just. "Bloodraven brought it to the Wall with him, where Aemon Targaryen was tasked with looking after it during a long ranging. Bloodraven never came back and the sword was hidden in the Maester's chambers. When Aemon found out I was coming here to meet you, he told me to bring the sword."

"Wait," Dany cut in. "Is Aemon still alive?"

Her heart soon sank at the look on his face. But, just for a second, she let herself believe she had another relative out there. Someone else she could call family. For not even Viserys mentioned a kinsman at the Wall.

"I'm sorry," said Jon, gently. "He was approaching a hundred and died in Braavos, on his way back to Oldtown."

"And he sent you here with this?" she inspected the sword again. "How I grieve for a man I never met. I can never thank him."

Jon sat up, looking her in the eye. It was such an intense look, anyone lesser would have wilted beneath it. But she liked it. Hardly anyone looked her in the eye. She liked him.

"I was coming to you anyway," he explained. "You know my brother, the King in the North, isn't dead as reported. His offer to you is that he will bend the knee and help you take back the Seven Kingdoms for House Targaryen. So will the Reach, the home of the new Queen in the North. The Riverlands will also fight for you and so will the Vale. That is why I have come: to bring you home."

For a long moment, Daenerys was speechless. Her jaw was slack, her mouth hanging open until she realised how silly she must have looked.

"There must be a catch," she said with a dry mouth. "This is too good to be true."

"All we ask in return," Jon replied. "Is that you return immediately, bring your dragons and fight the war in the far north. Only once you have helped us defeat the evil that lives beyond the wall will we come together and acknowledge you as our Queen."

Daenerys' heart was beating so fast she thought he could probably hear it. And she was all in a whirl.  _Was that it? Was that all he wanted?_  Her head was spinning. She could fight any war with her three dragons deployed at once. They made her unassailable or as good as. She supposed she ought to ask exactly what the threat beyond the wall was, but right now she couldn't see past the offer he had made.

Just then, Quaithe popped back into her head. She predicted the arrival of the Westerosi. Just as she had predicted the offer they made:  _'everything you ever wanted is closer to hand than you think…'_

"I can't just up and leave Meereen," she stammered. "I just need a little longer to set up a viable regency, that's all. Then, I swear it, I will come with you."

"After months on the high seas, my sister and I are keen to remain for a month or so," he replied. "After that, we must return."

"That's enough!" she retorted. "That's plenty, that's all I need."

Her blood was pumping now, she felt like she could move a mountain if she so desired. And she thought she might do just that.

"Sansa's a young girl, but she has an older head on her shoulders," he said. "She can help you handle any negotiations, so long as she is safe."

She wanted to throw her arms around him and kiss him. But paused as the momentousness of what was happening sank in. She was going home. She was doing what Viserys only ever talked about. And while he talked of armies and conquest, she was going through diplomacy. She would fight the war in the far north and earn the fealty of her future subjects. This was right. She knew it in her heart, it was the right thing to do. She would not conquer. She would prove herself.

* * *

Robb sat back as Lord Glover got to his feet, first. The mood in the Great Hall of Winterfell was simmering and he didn't look as if he was about to help matters. Drawn to full height, he looked Robb in the eye.

"You were the King in the North," Glover pointed out. "Then you were the King Who Lost the North. After that, the King Who Won the North Back. Now you summon us here, after we fought and died in your campaigns, to tell us you're about to become the King Who Gave the North Away on a Whim to Some Foreign Dragon Queen Across the Narrow Fucking Sea."

His outburst was met with a rapturous applause and cries of approval from the others. Inwardly, Robb shrank away. Outwardly, he sat straight in his father's old seat on the high table and looked his mutinous lords in the faces. "The wars to come are not a whim. We need the Dragon Queen's help-"

"Says who?"

To Robb's dismay, it was Greatjon Umber. Although, he knew he could hardly expect anything less of the man who was the first to name him king, all those years ago. Now that Robb had seemingly cast off the crown he had bestowed, he was on his feet and looking daggers into the crowd.

"What does this Targaryen girl know of the North? What does she know of white walkers, the wall and the wildlings? If we can't defeat what's out there, no one can. Especially not some girl who's never even set foot on Northern soil."

"And how many of us fought and died in the rebellion against the Mad King?" another called out. "Lord Glover, what say you of the Targaryens?"

Glover was on his feet again, just as unimpressed as he was before. "My kinsman was the last known survivor of Brandon Stark's companions; all the rest were burned alive. Only for Ethan to die in Dorne freeing Lyanna Stark from a prison in the Dornish Mountains. Don't ask me what I think of the Targaryens, my lord. Our history speaks for itself."

"House Mormont knows no King or Queen but the King in the North whose name is Stark." Lyanna Mormont repeated the same sentiments she had expressed to Stannis Baratheon. "Let the Targaryen Queen come with all the dragons in Old Valyria, I say the North must never surrender."

Another act of defiance met with another roar of approval. Only Walda got to her feet next, trembling visibly under the gaze of lords she knew wanted her dead.

"I agree with his grace," she said.

"Who the fuck asked you," someone cut her off. "Sit down and shut up, you're lucky you have your life."

"Lady Bolton has a right to speak on behalf of her son," Robb called over the laughter.

To Walda's credit, she did not falter. "I believe a terrible war is coming from the North and we must all work together to fight it. If that means we need dragons, then so be it."

"Coward!" a cry went up from the rear of the hall.

"I also agree with His Grace," another tremulous voice made itself heard. It was Alys Karstark, to Robb's dismay. The only people backing him up were the same people who feared he would strip them of what was left of their lands and titles.

It was a fact not lost on the others.

"Oh look, another turncoat grovelling favour from the King About to Give Away the North."

Alys trembled but stood her ground. "That's not true, my lords! The king killed my father, his own kinsman. Yes, House Karstark wronged House Stark, but House Stark wronged us back and now I think we're even. But I agree with our King. If, as they say, there is a great and terrible war coming, I want us to be fighting side by side by anyone and everyone willing to fight back. North or south, Westerosi or foreign."

Robb never expected his bannermen to be happy about his decision. But neither had he expected it to be like this. He called for a break in proceedings and went out onto the battlements just to breathe the open air again.

The snow was falling in blizzards, banking up high against the castle walls. But the repairs were speeding along nonetheless. The Great Hall was fixed and the guest halls were at full capacity, filled with his now mutinous lords. Only Margaery was missing, leaving a gaping hole in his life. He needed her now, although they would all be outraged he now had a very southern Queen. He sighed heavily, regretting the day he ever let himself be named King in the North.

"I thought I would find you here."

A familiar voice halted his mood's downward spiral. He whipped around to find Brynden emerging on to the battlements. Greeting each other with a tight embrace, relief washed over him. Even that didn't last long.

"I came as soon as I could," said Brynden, now looking out over the grounds. "Edmure's broken ranks. He will not send men to fight in the North, he says he's sworn no oath to Daenerys Targaryen and will not bend the knee. He's pulled up the drawbridge and dropped the portcullis."

Robb sighed heavily and cursed under his breath. "Edmure be thrice damned. Doesn't he remember who got him out of the Twins? I got him back in Riverrun and now he does this."

"He's a damn fool and I told him as much."

He had to remind himself that he still had the Vale. Surely they had no reason to defy him. Then he remembered his cousin and realised anything could happen. Especially now Sansa was far away, out of Sweet Robin's sphere of influence. He was about to launch into a recounting of what happened in the hall when the horns blasted across the grounds. They exchanged a worried look as the horns sounded again, followed by shouts and the sound of the portcullis being hastily winched up.

Gathering his tattered wits, Robb rushed for the steps and out into the yard. As he arrived, a litter came crashing through the gates carried by ten men. A scream emanated from inside, high, shrill and wavering. It was animal in its nature. Before he could draw level with it, Arya tumbled out of the back looking pale and stricken. After her, Margaery all but fell out. Her skirts were soaked in blood, she was sweating profusely and promptly fell to her knees. Blood dripped into the thick snow between her legs.

"Seven hells," he cursed, rushing to her side. "Margaery, you can't stay there. You need to get inside, now."

With a strength that took him at unawares, she wrenched herself away from him. "You're not laughing now, you Winter Kings!"

Her bizarre statement was followed by an almighty heave as she bore down on herself. Arya dropped to her own knees, shouting at Robb to move. By comparison, Olenna was positively serene as she regarded the scene playing out before her. She turned to Robb with a resigned expression on her face.

"She absolutely insisted, you know. The baby just had to be born at Winterfell. Well, here we are. Are you all done yet, dear?"

Part of her sentence was drowned out as Margaery hoisted herself up with Arya's help and went in for the kill with one last heave. Mid-push, she gasped a rush of air as the tension broke and Arya caught the birthing babe with a cry of relief and joy. Gasping for breath, Margaery fell back and Robb caught her just in time. They lay together in the snow as in infant wail pierced the air around them.

The horror of the moment subsided as Arya held the wet, wriggling creature up for them to see. Its cord still attached, the babe kicked its legs, revealing its maleness to the overwhelming relief of both parents. From the shaky grasp of his aunt's hands, the future Lord Cregan Stark wailed his displeasure against the cold.


	30. The Best of Enemies

"They are your enemies." The Green Grace spoke much plainer than usual. A note of urgency in her normally restrained counsel. "Their father fought yours at the Trident, did they not? They were the ruin of your house."

"Their father fought my brother at the Trident," Daenerys corrected her. She was studying her reflection in the mirror, running her hands down the front of the bodice of her new Westerosi gown. It was a gift from Sansa Stark and only minor alterations had had to be made to the skirts. Periwinkle blue silk, trimmed with gold and embroidered with gold dragonflies. Her Meereenese tokar, the garment of the slavers, lay discarded at the foot of her bed. Allowing herself a small smile, she continued: "And we make peace with our enemies. You told me that yourself. To rule a people, we must adopt their customs and their dress."

The whalebone corset would take some getting used to, but the dress had already become her new favourite. Before leaving Meereen, she noted to herself to have her seamstresses make another for her and one for Missandei.

"They come bearing great gifts and greater promises," the Green Grace continued undeterred. "You have been offered these things before and possessed the wisdom to see through the flattery and lies."

Turning from the mirror, Daenerys focused on the crone speaking from the shadows of her chambers. Shrouded in green silks, only her equally green eyes were visible beneath her layers of silk and muslin. Eyes Dany once thought sad and full of ancient wisdom. She felt differently now although she couldn't quite pin-point why. "Again, you are mistaken. They came with an offer. An offer is not the same as a promise or a gift. If I do something for them, they will do something for me. They are in peril and I will help them."

"That man, what does he want?" said the Green Grace. "Men only ever want one thing from women like you. Remember Qarth, your grace."

"Theon is incapable and Jon is celibate," Daenerys pointed out. "It's highly unlikely either of them will want that."

She liked that about Jon and Theon. While the latter was a bag of scattering nerves, the former was the opposite. Strong and stoic, and entirely devoid of the ulterior motive of talking her into bed. As much as she had liked Daario, she had always been aware that every word he spoke to her was carefully tailored to lure her between the sheets. Jon wasn't like that. Jon was different.

"But they do want what everyone else wants," said the Green Grace. "They want your dragons."

Daenerys hesitated, the answer froze on her lips. But she was able to gather herself in good time. "Again, there's a crucial difference: they want my dragons  _and_  they want me. They aren't trying to steal one, they're not using my children as symbols of status. There's a war to fight and only I can secure their victory."

To Daenerys' exasperation, the Green Grace still wasn't done. "The man's brother controls the North. The girl controls the region she calls the Vale. His sister-by-law controls the Reach. Together, they can amass great armies. They could conquer worlds, if they so desired. But only you and your dragons can vanquish their enemies? I find that hard to believe."

Daenerys faltered again. Viserys told her all the numbers each region could muster. The Reach could muster forty-five thousand in a month and more given time. The Vale came out around forty thousand. The North also commanded vast numbers. Taking the Riverlands into account, they could amass well over one hundred thousand. What did they need her for so badly that they came all this way with promises to bend the knee in return?

At the time, she had been blinded by the offer and swept up in the moment. She hadn't asked for details and now the shadows of doubts crept up around her. A cold and creeping suspicion that had her seeking out her guests shortly after noon.

She found Jon and Sansa in the gardens below her chambers, dining together under a canopy. They didn't notice her, at first, and she found herself watching them as they talked quietly to each other. She could not hear what was being said and she had no particular desire to eavesdrop. She just watched as they seemed to encourage each other to sample the local fare they had been offered. They were attentive of each other. Jon spoke gently to Sansa and Sansa softly prodded her more conservative sibling to try new things. Often, she had noted the dynamics between them and wondered why it stirred some lost sense of longing in her heart.

It was there, that day and at that moment, she realised what it was. Jon was everything Viserys was not. Looking at the two of them was like reaching into her childish imagination when she tried to imagine how things should have been for herself and her own brother. The Starks had lost everything, just as the Targaryens had. But their filial bonds and mutual affection united them, where Viserys had become embittered and enraged. That could have been them, sitting under the canopy while she cajoled Viserys into eating a whole honeyed finger. It made her feel sad to think of all they could have shared.

Although reluctant to break up the tea party, she stepped out into the afternoon light. "Pardon me, I wondered if the Lord Commander and I might speak."

Jon hastily moved aside to make room for her, but Sansa rose and brushed down the front of her skirts.

"You don't have to go," Dany assured her.

"I should," she insisted. "I said I'd help Tyrion with something."

Whatever the mysterious 'something' was, she did not say. After bidding them a good afternoon and complimenting Dany's new gown, Sansa left them to it. Without further ado, Dany took her recently vacated spot beneath the canopy. For a moment, they both looked at each other, each waiting for the other to break the silence. Unaccustomed to it, Dany went first.

"There are a few things, really," she said, leaning back against the cushions. "First is Dark Sister. I cannot thank you enough for returning it to my House." He went to wave her gratitude away, but Daenerys persisted before he could properly interrupt her: "But I don't know the first thing about wielding a sword. When I fight, I'll be on the back of a dragon and a sword's no good to anybody hundreds of feet in the air. So, for now, I thought you might like to keep it. Until we get to Westeros, I mean."

Jon smiled a rare smile and nudged the abandoned plate of honeyed fingers aside. "Thank you, your grace. I'd appreciate that."

"Second," she continued. "Is this war. My closest advisor mentioned something to me that doesn't make sense: between you, King Robb and his Queen and Sansa, you command an army of over a hundred thousand. What enemy is so great it cannot be conquered by that force alone?" She faltered as Jon's expression clouded over, his gaze averted. Nor did she know what to read into that look. "In short, why do you need me to do it?"

"Men alone cannot defeat our enemy," he answered after a long pause. "Every man in Westeros could come up against them and they would only grow stronger. In all your years together, did your brother not tell you about the Others and the Long Night?"

"He told me about the Night's Watch and the Wildlings," she said, the colour rising in her face as she realised her ignorance of the rest. "But … others?"

Jon reached for the plate of honeyed fingers and nudged them toward her. "You may as well," he said. "It's a long story."

* * *

The last time Robb entered the crypts of Winterfell was in a dream. It was after the Red Wedding, when he'd been running for his life and was overtaken by fever. In that dream, the crypts had looked as they always looked: dark and ancient, heavy with the long-forgotten past. In reality, it wouldn't have surprised him to find that the Boltons had destroyed the ancient tombs and finding them intact, untouched, came as an immense relief.

Dressed in black, Margaery accompanied him with Cregan squirming in her arms. But even he fell still and silent as they made their way past ancient monuments to long dead kings. Newly reinstated as Winterfell's Master of Horse, Harwin was leading the way with an oil lamp held above his head. The rays of its light only just reaching the end of the passage, where Eddard Stark's casket now sat waiting by his open tomb.

As a child, Robb thought it strange that his father had his grave already prepared. He grew older, accepting that it was just an extension of his father's naturally solemn disposition. Now, as an adult who had survived one war and was already facing another, he understood entirely. Life may have felt endless at Cregan's age, but it was fragile. Proof of that lay all around him, in the effigy of his aunt, dead at sixteen. His uncle Brandon, dead at nineteen. Even his father was gone long before his time.

"Are you alright?"

Margaery's whispered enquiry drew him from his musings.

He took Cregan from her arms and lay the baby against his shoulder. "Fine."

They had no Maester yet, but Lord Manderly had brought his own. It was he who presided over the small gathering that had come to pay their final respects to the late Lord of Winterfell. Meanwhile, Manderly himself, Lords Glover, Umber and Flint all congregated around Robb and pretended the disagreement of the day before hadn't happened. Arya held Rickon by the hand as they moved to the front of the gathered crowd. As always, his sister's expression was impossible to read. Stony and silent, she wore her solemn Stark face.

"He was a fine man, your father," said Lord Glover, patting him on the back. "We'll not see his likes again."

Robb found himself nodding and agreeing. "He was, my lord."

"Never a man more honourable," someone else stated. "None of this messing around, bending with every wind. A straight up honest Lord. You don't get many of those."

"Yes, that's true," Robb agreed again, his voice toneless as he studied the casket.

All these graveside eulogies made Eddard Stark sound so simple, so completely devoid of any form of complexity. But that wasn't true and Robb turned to look at the faces around him. From his brother and sister to the lords and their servants. None of them knew his father, not really. In a few years, Rickon would barely remember him, if he even remembered him still at that moment. He found himself desperate to tell them of what his father had done, the risks he had taken to protect an orphan in need. But the words would not come.

He had been shocked and angry when he first found out and he dreaded to think how Arya would react. But a deeper level of understanding had been another gift of parenthood. The lengths a man would go to, to protect his family. He felt he should have known it all along. And as the bones of his father were pushed into their final resting place, all Robb could think of was how unfair it was that Lord Stark would never know the grandson he would have loved and protected with his life.

There was no real service to speak of, only lifelong friends paying their last respects. Even so, Margaery pressed a flower into Cregan's hand and Robb helped him to lay it on the casket before the tomb was sealed. Then, when it was done, it felt complete. Like a chapter had been closed off, everything was back in its place. Everything was as it should be.

Except it wasn't. Not in reality. Outside, back in the yards, the snowfalls had started again and the truce between the lords in honour of their fallen overlord came to an end. Their voices rose and the talk returned to the lands beyond the wall. Robb handed the baby back to Margaery before seeking out Lyanna Mormont. It felt foolish seeking out a nine-year-old, but she spoke and her house listened.

"My Lady," he greeted her, steering her toward the empty armoury. "The previous Lord Commander was your kinsman, a man respected by those who served him both in the Watch and on Bear Island. When he spoke of the dead rising and attacking the living, do you think he was making it up for attention?"

"Of course not," she replied, defensively. "But nor do I think we should go running blind into danger, your grace. Nor do I think we should surrender our hard-won sovereignty before we even know the extent of that danger."

"That's not what we're doing," Margaery interjected. "As his grace explained, we swear fealty to Daenerys if, and only if, our enemies beyond the wall are defeated first. And only if she helps us. If she does not, she's on her own."

"And so are we," said Robb, quietly.

A few of the others drifted toward them, bearing flagons of warmed wine. Their newly recruited nursemaid showed up to take Cregan back to his cradle before he got too cold. Robb still relived the moment of his birth repeatedly in his head. The moment the infant dropped from his mother's womb half a heartbeat after she crossed the castle's threshold. It made him smile to remember the looks on the faces of the grizzled northerners.

In the meantime, their dispute was made more bearable by the warm wine now being distributed. The passing of the last day and a little wine to sooth the tempter always helped things run a little more smoothly. All the same, the disagreement was still there and simmering below the surface.

"Might I have a word, your grace?"

Robb looked up from the cup cradled in his hands to find Ser Davos Seaworth approaching from the armoury. After returning Rickon from Skagos, he had been granted lodgings and board inside Winterfell until he knew what he would be doing next. Having stayed by Stannis' side until the bitter end, he was hardly likely to be welcomed back into the southern realm with open arms.

"Ah, Ser Davos, be welcome," Manderly moved aside to make room for him.

Robb rather liked the man, to his faint surprise. "Speak freely, ser."

"As you all know, Stannis was my king," he began hesitantly. "I mean no disrespect to you, your grace. Anyway, what I mean to say is, we came North as Mance Rayder amassed his forces to attack the wall. We thought it was just another wildling attack, until we learned of what it was the wildlings were fleeing from, why they were so desperate to get south of the wall, my lords. Your King speaks truly."

"I don't doubt our king speaks truly, ser Davos," Glover replied.

"I had already mentioned to his grace that that is not the issue," Lyanna pointed out.

"We're Northerners, no one knows this land like us," said Greatjon. "There's nothing in this land that can't be defeated by us- "

"But that's just it," Robb interjected. He tried to stay calm but his patience was wearing thin. "We can stand here beating our chests about how no one understands us and no one will ever know our land as we do. Perhaps you're right. But the truth is, we don't know what's out there. We don't know what's coming our way and it's almost on our fucking doorstep, my lords. You don't seem to realise: we're facing a threat that hasn't been seen in thousands of years. So, we don't know. We don't understand. We need help and we need to be doing something.

What are we doing right now? We're standing on our pride and indulging in empty posturing while an army of dead men assault our northern territories, and all you can do is argue about Daenerys Targaryen. I told you the truth. I could have lied about my plans and deceived you all. But I respect you all too much for that, my lords. You don't deserve that after all you've done for House Stark. Nor do you deserve to die in your castles while the North burns."

Finally, it seemed like they were listening. No one cut in, no one rushed to shout him down. All he got in return was stony silence as they took it all in.

"My brother, Ser Garlan, will be leading a force of men north to Castle Black," said Margaery. "We're not pretending we know this land at all. We don't. We've never been here before in our lives. We're not claiming to do things better than our northern Lords. On the contrary, we're trying to learn and we're trying to adapt. We want to help and we need your help in return."

"And I'll be setting out as well," said Robb. "My son, sister and brother will remain in Winterfell. Queen Margaery will be acting in my stead. After everything that's happened between our Houses, I won't ask you to join me, or even provide any men. But I would like to think I have your support, at the very least."

He had said his piece and if they were still arguing among themselves, he was tempted to leave them to it. They'll still be squabbling and posturing as the Great Other unleashed his undead minions on their holdfasts. It would make little difference to Robb if things got that bad. However, he had a feeling throwing down the gauntlet might just spur them into picking it up. To his intense relief, Greatjon made the first move.

"The Last Hearth is as its name suggests," he said, gravely. "Anything gets past that wall and we'll be the first to suffer. Moreover, House Umber stands with House Stark. Always. I'm coming too and I'll raise as good a force as I can."

"I can provide one hundred fighting men," said Lyanna. "All the ones who survived the battle at the White Knife."

Alys Karstark, who supported him anyway, was the next to pledge her forces and castle. Fat Walda had already pledged what was left of Roose's men and most were already on their way to the wall as they spoke. But when Glover, Flint and Cerwyn relented and fell into line, Robb finally breathed easily. The issue of Northern independence could wait; winter's savage onslaught would not.

Sunset came earlier that day. By mid-afternoon, the sun was sinking over the western hills and the shadows lengthened in its wake. In the godswood, it was already dark. All around Robb, the limbs of every tree were ripe with icicles and leaden with snow. This was the winter his father had always warned him about. Most house words were a boast, but House Stark's were a warning. Winter was coming and now it was baying at their backdoor and no one saw it coming. Not even him. He remembered Gared, the watchman executed before King Robert came to visit and he realised then that, perhaps, even his father had ignored the warning signs of approaching trouble.

He reached the heart tree, with its long solemn face and sap-weeping eyes. The still surface of the pool reflected darkly the overhanging branches. Set away from the main castle grounds, surrounded by three acres of woodland, it was obvious why his father had loved this place so much. It was quiet, peaceful. A place where one could clear their head without abandoning the castle as a whole. A still sanctuary at the heart of the fortress and another part of his home he was immensely relieved to see the Boltons had left untouched. Not even they were completely godless.

Sitting in the same spot his father so often occupied, he found himself alone with his thoughts at last. Cregan was days old and already he, Robb, was leaving for more war. Margaery didn't even know her way around the castle, but she was being left in charge to sink or swim. He had no desire to go, no desire to see more men die. But the gods had taken his choices from him and left him with just one course of action. All the same, he saw no harm in making one last appeal to those same gods to go easy on them.

There were no prayers for followers of the Old Gods. No special words or songs of praise. Only silent meditation in the darkest heart of the sacred woods. Could they even hear him? It seemed impossible, but it was all he had. He leaned back against the smooth white bark, closing his eyes as a startled raven took flight from the uppermost branches. He could not guess what scared it so, but the wind soon sighed through the trees and he thought he heard his name being called. He thought it sounded like Bran.

Startled himself, his eyes shot open and he sat upright again. The raven looked right at him, unafraid and untroubled. When it squawked at him, it sounded like it was saying 'corn.'

"I thought I might find you here."

Arya gave him a jolt, but quite unintentionally. She emerged from the darkness of the pathway before circling the spring to join him before the heart tree. All the while, Robb watched the raven hopping into the darkness of the trees. He thought it might be a messenger raven, blown off course or simply trying to find Winterfell, but there were no ties on its legs that he could see.

"I wish you weren't leaving," she said, settling beside him.

Robb smiled ruefully. "So do I."

He hoped she wasn't going to try and talk him out of it.

"You're a father now," she continued. "You have to stay safe for Cregan, not just the North."

"He has his aunt," he said, optimistically. "And his mother. And his uncles."

"That's not the same. Look at Rickon, growing up without our father. At least we knew him, but Rickon didn't. Don't leave Cregan the same way."

"I'll try not to," he assured her. "But listen, Arya, if something does happen to me, there's a letter in my solar that I need you to give to Jon."

He hadn't written it yet, but he was going to. A full explanation of his parents and the circumstances surrounding his birth as best as Robb could remember it. It wasn't ideal, but it was better than dying and taking the truth to the grave with him.

Arya was frowning, biting her lower lip. "For Jon?"

"King!" Both of them gasped as the raven flapped back into the clearing. "King! King!"

"Is that thing talking?" asked Arya, glaring at the bird.

Robb scooped up a handful of snow and chucked it in the bird's direction. It didn't budge and he soon lost interest in it again. "Just remember what I told you. A letter for Jon in the solar, in the bureau drawer. It's important that only Jon sees it."

Arya nodded and, by now, knew better than to ask questions. Together, they got up and prepared to leave, only for their new friend to come flying after them. The raven diverted, coming to land near a thicket of newly blossoming winter roses. Their royal blue petals opened to the snow, filling the air with sweetness. He regarded them for a moment, appreciating the small show of beauty still thriving amidst winter's smothering pall.

"Who says roses don't belong in the North," he said, approaching the rosebushes. They made him think of Margaery.

* * *

"You must think I've lost my wits." As he spoke, Jon looked across the table at Daenerys. If she felt any such sentiment, she did not show it. "But everything I've told you is the truth – however much I wish it wasn't so."

"I don't think you've lost your wits," she assured him. "I think you're very brave."

He suppressed a modest laugh, briefly dropping his gaze. Although they had started their discussions that afternoon, it gone on even longer than he thought it would and they'd relocated to the Queen's private chambers. Now they were there, several hours on, with a single candle sat between them and burning low already. Through it all, she listened patiently and rarely interrupted.

Help had come from an unexpected quarter when Tyrion appeared, confirming Jon's story about sending Alliser Thorne to King's Landing with the still animated arm of a wight. Even Sansa remembered it, but Tyrion had been unable to do anything since it was so close to the Battle of Blackwater Bay. While the five kings wrangled over an iron chair, the real threat migrated ever southwards.

"My predecessor and I wrote to every lord of Westeros," Jon said. "Not one of them replied. Not one was willing to listen until I came beating on their doors. So, I thank you for taking time to listen to me today."

"No," she replied. "I thank you for coming to me, for making me aware of what's happening in the north. Lord Commander, I mean to be a Queen worthy of the title. I mean to earn the respect of those I would rule."

From White Harbour to Slaver's Bay, Jon had spent a good chunk of that time wondering what he would make of Daenerys. He worried, even more, over what she would make of them. Their families had been enemies, after all. But all around him slaves walked free, an army of gelded abductees had been gifted the semblance of a life. Human trade had been made illegal and the human bearpits shut down. And it was all down to her.

She was shorter than he, skinny and looked barely older than Sansa. She presided over a court of exiles and misfits all looking for a way back home and she did so seemingly without judgement. It seemed ideal, almost idyllic. To the point where he worried she may not want to leave after all. However, under the surface, that yearning was in her. She was a woman raised in the knowledge she had lost something that was hers by right. A seething injustice that had spurred her on to where she was now.

"The Westerosi will have their misgivings about you," he said. "More so your dragons. They will be afraid you come looking for revenge. You won't, will you? You won't use turn those dragons on innocent people?"

"Of course I won't," she replied. A frown marred her brow, casting a shadow over her lilac eyes but she soon relaxed again and reached across the table to take his hand in her own. "Let us strike another bargain, Lord Commander. That together, we'll bury the past and work together to make some other future. Maybe one that's even better."

Her hand was small in his own, her skin pale but strangely rough skinned. Maybe it was handling the dragons, whose scales were hot. Maybe it was because she wasn't afraid of getting them dirty. Whatever the reason, he couldn't help but trust her all the more for it. He met her gaze and nodded.

"Agreed," he said.

At that, she rose to her feet but motioned for him to remain in place. After just a few steps, she was beyond the reach of the pale candlelight and he could not see what she was doing. But when she returned, she had Dark Sister in her hands. He'd almost forgotten her suggestion of returning it to him.

"Take it," she urged him, taking his hand once more in her own. She pressed the sword into his palm. "Use it well."

He looked from the sword to Daenerys and smile. "I will."

To pass the time during the search for a viable regency, Jon helped Ser Barristan with the Unsullied patrols. Ignorant of the problems Meereen had faced since the fall of the slaver's empire, he was of limited use. All the same, he knew how to fight and did what he could in the campaign to restore order to the seething city streets. Every so often he would look up at the great pyramids that dominated the city's skyline and see one of the dragons climbing up its side. It was the strangest sight he ever did see, armies of dead men notwithstanding.

Drogon kept his distance, only ever approaching his 'mother' if he made contact at all. However, his brother, Rhaegal, seemed friendlier. It was as Jon was making his way back to the great pyramid after a night patrol that Rhaegal seemed to be following him from on high. He landed in the gardens, blocking Jon's path to the main entrance. It was nightfall, with few people out and about. Despite his nerves, he touched the dragon's snout fearing he was about to be burned to a crisp. The moment lasted for half a heartbeat, but the great beast purred like a cat before soaring back into the night sky as though nothing had happened.

Giddy with relief, Jon was free to resume his journey homewards. Through the gates guarded by the Unsullied, along an overgrown path into the Queen's private gardens and out onto the more manicured lawns lined with sharp-scented fruit trees. It was as he emerged from between two persimmon trees that he saw her up on the balcony. Dressed in a loose gown of muslin and silk, she looked like she might have been getting ready for bed. Her silver hair was loose about her shoulders, neatly brushed out but in no way styled.

Daenerys was leaning against the pale stone balustrade, her cheek resting against her palm as she looked out over the night sky. Jon pulled up sharply in his tracks, unaware of how intently he looked up at her. In all the occasions he had taken to summarise her in his head, thinking of the right words to send back home, he had been acutely aware of, but never openly acknowledging, just one sentiment. And that was just how incredibly beautiful she was.

She continued to watch the stars, unaware of his presence below her balcony.


	31. Alliances

 

Only a rumour of dawn shimmered on the eastern horizon. Restless and sleepless, Robb watched the day's slow rise with his infant son sleeping against his chest. In the room behind them, Margaery turned in her sleep. He knew she would awaken soon. She would rise and dress in her finest silks, to bid him a formal farewell before he rode out of the castle gates to lead his men north. She would do the same as Catelyn Stark had done for his father, countless times before.

From his place perched on the windowsill, he looked down into the forecourt of the castle. Moonlight crested the forge and guest rooms, it made the icy cobbles glitter. The barbican was a hulking edifice, standing black against the pre-dawn sky. Only streaks of silver moonlight slanted through the bars of the portcullis he would soon be riding out of. He tried to think of how many times he had watched his father leading their men out of those gates, dreaming of the day he would be doing the same. Even now, all these years later, he could see it clearly. He could see Eddard Stark, mounted on a great destrier, surrounded by men at arms and banners snapping in the brisk Northern winds. It was a sight that had never failed to instil in him an ancient, tribal sort of pride.

Now his time had come and the childish pride had long deserted him. All he could feel was the pain of separation and the nebulous uncertainty of what lay ahead. It would take months to reach Castle Black alone and then only gods knew how long it would take to scout out whatever was lying in wait beyond the wall. And in all that time he was away, the babe in his arms would grow and change, and Robb knew he would miss it all.

Had his father felt the same, when he rode out of those gates? If he showed any sign of it, Robb hadn't noticed. But then, he hadn't noticed much beyond the live steel, the horses and the banners. What distracted him now was the rustling of bedsheets and sound of bare feet hitting the oakwood floor. He turned over his shoulder, to where Margaery had awoken at last. She rose slowly, still stiff from sleep. In the poor light, her hair was black but her sheer nightdress seemed to shine.

She looked at him and smiled. "Good morning."

"Is it?"

Margaery didn't answer but crossed the room to where he and Cregan still watched the creeping dawn. He could feel the warmth of her body as she squeezed onto the sill behind them and wrapped her arms around his middle. From over his shoulder, she watched the sleeping baby and kissed the scar on his shoulder.

"If Arya is to be the Stark in Winterfell, there's nothing to stop Cregan and I from visiting you," she said. "Or do they not allow women at the wall at all?"

That wasn't the case, but still Robb was cautious. "I would rather a more experienced hand remain here, if it please you. Until further notice, you are the Queen in the North."

"And my place is at Winterfell," she finished for him.

All the same, she looked dismayed. Like her predecessor, she would find her lord's absence a wrench. Robb didn't know whether to be pleased about that or not. In the meantime, they both had other concerns.

"Don't you think King's Landing has been suspiciously quiet?" he asked. "If they decide to take action against us, I don't want Arya here alone to face that sort of army."

"But you said no southern invading army has ever made it this far north," she said, brow creasing into a frown. "At least, not before us Tyrells but we had full cooperation of the Northern Lords."

Robb shrugged. "True, but after everything that's happened, I'm no longer willing to take anything for granted. Besides, Cersei might just be mad enough to actually try it."

The last they heard, the Queen Mother was being paraded naked through the streets of the city. While Robb was in little doubt that some form of cosmic justice had been at play, he sincerely doubted the shame and humiliation would have done anything to improve Cersei's mental stability. And, for all her debasement, while her son was a child, she still wielded power and commanded armies.

"And we have Ser Jaime," said Margaery. "She's bound to come after him, if no one else."

Robb couldn't help but smile. The Queen's twin brother was under the impression she had been fucking a myriad of men, up to and including a court jester by the name of Moon Boy. "Ser Jaime is not my prisoner. We must hope Cersei understands he is coming north of his own volition."

"But why?" she asked. "I mislike it, Robb. We cannot trust him."

"And I don't," he assured her. "Besides, I think he's doing this to impress Brienne."

"Brienne?"

"Of Tarth- "

"I know who she is, Robb," Margaery cut in. "But … her and Jaime. Really?"

"When my mother released him, she sent Brienne down south with him as an escort," he recalled. "It seems they … bonded, somewhat. Besides, he's Kingsguard and seems to have belatedly uncovered his own sense of honour. I cannot imagine anything coming of this fancy."

"I still think he might be reporting back to Cersei," said Margaery. "And I had rather hoped you had learned your lesson about trusting enemies. After Theon and the Boltons."

"That's not fair, I thought they were my allies," he replied, feeling stung. "I was never under any such illusion with the Lannisters."

"All the more reason to distrust Jaime Lannister," she insisted. "Just, keep an eye on him. That's all I ask."

"And I will, my love, I swear it. The man crippled my little brother, remember. I would imagine if Cersei was sending spies into my camp, she'd do better than him given she knows what I know."

 _Did she know?_  Robb hadn't bothered to ask Jaime, but even Cersei couldn't be that stupid. It was a good portion of the reason they fought the war to begin with. His father, Sansa, Arya and Bran. All the same, Margaery was right. While they became embroiled in another war, deep politics would continue to happen regardless. He had to find a way to juggle both.

"If all the realm, bar the Riverlands and Westerlands, is fighting in the North, what will Cersei do?" he wondered aloud.

"What can Cersei do?" asked Margaery. "She can't take all our castles by stealth, she simply hasn't the means to hold them. She would just be squatting there until the armies return and kick her back out again."

Robb wouldn't have put it past her, but he kept his counsel to himself. The sun was rising, the child in his arms stirred in his sleep, drawn out of his slumbers by the sound of his parents' voices. Cregan's first mewling cries of the day were a hankering for his mother's milk and Margaery took the hint. But it was only with regret that Robb handed him over to her. It was separation come early.

"I'll miss you," he said, looking from the baby to Margaery. "Both of you, more than I can say."

Margaery's smile was pained, her eyes cast down. "It won't be for long."

They both knew that was a lie.

* * *

The hot Meereenese sun had burned Sansa's pale skin. As Olenna once informed her of her blushing habit, it resulted in her resembling a radish and this time it was semi-permanent. However, if the Queen noticed, she didn't let on. Together they strolled water's edge of Slaver's Bay, now free from the wreckage of the Yunkish ships the Ironborn had demolished. Now, only the Krakens and Mermen could be seen fluttering from the many masts of the many ships sent to carry them home.  _And soon may that day come_ , Sansa thought to herself as her peeling nose began to itch.

"Westeros will not accept Hizdahr Zo Loraq as their Prince Consort," she said, her tone carefully measured as not to give offence. "I understand there is a certain affection between you- "

The rest of her sentence was cut off by the sound of Daenerys' laughter. The Queen's hand came to rest on Sansa's arm, squeezing it gently as she composed herself. "Forgive me, Lady Stark, what existed between Hizdahr and I was nothing more than a mutual political convenience. He kissed me once and it was akin to being mauled by a landed fish."

"Sounds thoroughly charming, your grace." For some reason, it made her think of Joffrey and his fat, wormy lips. Only, she had loved him once. Before he revealed himself to be the monster he truly was. At least Hizdahr had clearly not lied to Daenerys.

Once more composed, Daenerys looked at her for a moment. "Don't you have a sweetheart? Jon told me about Joffrey, but a girl like you must have had better luck elsewhere."

The sunburn hid Sansa's blushes as she thought of Sandor Clegane, left behind in Westeros. "I wish! Well, my aunt wanted me to marry my cousin but he's obnoxious and he's half my age. But there's someone else. Only, he has two illegitimate children with two different mothers and I don't think my brothers approve."

"I can't imagine why," Daenerys replied, her tone dry. "Whoever he is, you can do better."

"He's heir to the Vale," Sansa continued. "If I reject him, and you're looking for a Westerosi husband, he might come after you next."

The Queen rolled her lilac eyes. "In that case, Drogon will be pleased to make his acquaintance."

They reached the ramparts of the Great Pyramid, where they could look down over the courtyard. Ser Barristan and Strong Belwas were drilling the Unsullied. Great lines of them, perfectly straight, stretched out below them. Despite the fatal illnesses and privations of the Yunkish siege, their numbers seemed beyond counting to Sansa.

Daenerys, however, was looking to the side where Jon was speaking quietly with Theon. The pair of them walked the lines of Unsullied, evidently trying to stay out of the way while observing their methods. The two women lapsed into a comfortable silence as they followed the path the two men followed, until Jon seemed to feel their eyes boring into his back. He turned and looked up, spotting them both he bowed his head in deference to the watching Queen.

Only when Jon returned his attention to Theon did Daenerys resume the discussion. "So, how many other eligible lords of Westeros are there? I must marry one of them."

Sansa considered the question for a moment but came up with little and less. "There's Willas Tyrell, Margaery's brother. He would bring you the wealth of the Reach, however, he is lame and walks only with the aid of a calliper and stick. The Lord of the Riverlands is already wed to a Frey. As you know, the King in the North is wed already. Trust me, you really don't want to know my cousin, Robert Arryn, who is Lord of the Vale. The Baratheons rule the Stormlands and my guess is you have no desire to marry one of those- "

Daenerys choked. "I'd sooner see them hang, my lady! Surely, there's an eligible bachelor somewhere among the Lords Paramount of Westeros?"

"If you made Tyrion lord of the Westerlands, once Cersei is defeated and Tommen disinherited," she suggested.

"Tyrion?" the look on the young Queen's face said it all. "I like Tyrion, I really do. His counsel is invaluable, I know I can trust him and I know he has the skills needed to be a great Prince Consort. But I could never … I could never see him like  _that._ "

The wedding night dropped into Sansa's memory like a stone down a well. Images she had hoped to forget abruptly reformed. Nothing had happened between them, Tyrion had honoured her wish to remain a maid. But she had seen him naked. "I know he's small, but he's very well endowed – "

"Thank you, Sansa, for that picture in my head," Daenerys cut in, laughing again. She soon regained control of herself. "Pardon me, I forget that you two were once wed … "

Daenerys trailed off into silence, her expression unreadable as she gazed down into the practise yard below. Their pace had slowed to a near standstill and Ser Barristan's commands drifted up from below. Half a heartbeat later, the silence was shattered by the sound of thousands of marching feet as the Unsullied manoeuvred below. Jon was still down there, watching the whole exercise with keen interest.

All Sansa could think was that the Unsullied would need proper clothing if they were to go north of the wall.

"What is Willas Tyrell like?" asked the Queen, briefly meeting Sansa's gaze. "Do you know him?"

"We were briefly betrothed, but I never met him in person," she replied, honestly. "But if he's like the rest of his siblings you will find him pleasant, gallant and handsome."

Daenerys looked thoroughly unimpressed. Even disappointed as she leaned against the railing of the ramparts, gazing forlornly down at her armies. "Daario Naharis will be here today. Do you remember my telling you about him?"

"I do. Hizdahr would find Westeros cold and unwelcoming. A man like Daario, I think, would be run out of the realm the moment his feet hit the ground."

"Oh, I know that," Daenerys replied. "I am leaving him here to rule Meereen in my absence. Which means I will soon see these fine lords of Westeros for myself."

Sansa sighed with relief, sending up a silent prayer that he would arrive son. "Must you marry a Lord Paramount? As I said, there are not many. Only seven, even when all unwed and fully available."

The Queen frowned, hesitating before asking: "Would a lesser lord would be acceptable? I suppose it would, really."

"Of course," she answered. "And there's scores of those to choose from. I couldn't even name them all."

Daenerys fell into a contemplative silence as she returned her attention to the marching Unsullied. Had they not been gelded and rendered dynastically useless, Sansa might have guessed one among their number had captured the Queen's heart. However, she wasn't looking directly at them. Her gaze was directed to the side-lines.

"I saw Jon last night," she said, quietly. "He was returning home through my gardens and I saw him from the balcony. It was … I mean, he was … oh, never mind."

"Please, do go on," Sansa urged her.

 _Was that who she was gazing mournfully at in the grounds below?_ A small smile played at Sansa's lips, her mind raced ahead for a moment as she tried to reason with herself. Any possibility of the taint of bastardy clearly wasn't a problem for Dany, not when she was taking sellswords to her bed. And why not? Jon had been legitimised. He was the son of a Lord Paramount, the brother of a King. She took up a spot beside the Queen at the railing, following her gaze to where Jon and Ser Barristan had taken up sparring. Despite his age, the old knight easily matched her brother.

"It's funny that you should mention Jon," Sansa continued. "Both Stannis Baratheon and King Robb have freed him from his Night's Watch vows- "

"Really?" Daenerys cut in, turning sharply to face her. Then she paused and drew a deep breath. "What I mean is, that's very interesting. He's been released from his vows. He said nothing to me about it."

Sansa smiled, finding her brother among the crowds again. "Jon wouldn't, he's not like that. He isn't a braggart, showing off his position. And Robb values him above all others."

Sansa knew Daenerys would need to win over the still fractious Northerners. Marrying one of them would help her immeasurably but now was not the time to push the matter. Dany had noticed him and she, Sansa, had helped the seed take root. That would do, for now.  _Softly, softly._

* * *

This moment had come so soon. Much sooner than Margaery had expected. Dressed in a gown of ivory silk, she mingled with the crowds gathered in the courtyards of Winterfell. Masking her own fears and anxieties, she spoke soft words of encouragement and incited them to bravery. She promised to pray for them to the old gods and the new. All the while, she eyed the Northern Lords and wondered how many of them would truly accept her in the halls of Winterfell. Meanwhile, a large raven hopped from fencepost to fencepost, cawing loudly. It sounded like it was saying something, but Margaery couldn't make it out.

From the corner of her eye, she could see Robb talking to Wyman Manderly and Bronze Yohn Royce of the Vale. Their horses were harnessed and ready to go, their hooves stamping restively in the frozen earth. Wishing she was going too, Arya watched sullenly from the terrace above. Margaery tried to catch her eye, but her sister-by-law was in a world of her own. No doubt, it was a world in which it was perfectly acceptable for ten-year-old girls to ride into battle alongside their brothers.

The horn blast jolted Margaery out of her thoughts. All around her, the armoured men mounted their horses and the voices grew louder as generals issued commands. When the press of bodies parted, Robb appeared and he was heading straight for her. Meeting him halfway, she wrapped her arms tight around him, not caring about who was looking. Only the gods knew when they would be in each other's arms again.

"I don't know what I'll do without you," she said, her voice muffled by his tunic. "Write to me often, or else I'll worry myself sick."

"I will, you have my word," he assured her. "But you needn't worry. I'll have my men and Jon should be returning from Meereen, soon."

"Jon is not you."

He smiled, dropped his gaze. "There's no arguing with that."

Before, love had never been part of the bargain when she planned her future. All the same, love had come and her love was about to go riding out of that barbican and into the unknown. She could feel its passing, even before it happened. But not even the tears that swam in her eyes could stop her from committing every detail of him to memory. The blue of his eyes, the feel of his muscle beneath the cloth of his tunic. The scent of his skin and the feel of his arms around her waist. Something else to remember him by: the feel of his lips against her as they kissed deeply. A final kiss before the wars to come.

"Don't look back," she said, pressing her hand against his cheek. Even clean shaven, she could feel the bristles of his beard. "The sooner you go, the sooner you can come back."

He looked over her shoulder, to where Winterfell loomed large above them. For a long moment, he seemed lost for words. "I know it'll be safe in your hands. Even so, you'll be in my thoughts. Always."

Without another word needing to be said, they ended the drawn out goodbye before either could lose their resolve. They turned sharply, arranged their faces and went their separate ways.

* * *

At the sound of his sister's voice, he whirled around. He could see her already, edging her way through the people milling about the harbour, her red hair burnished to the colour of flame under the Meereenese sun. Meanwhile, before she could catch up with him, he issued the last few instructions to get the Queen's belongings safely packed on the ship. Not a moment too soon, they were finally heading for home.

"Sister," he greeted her with a kiss once she caught him up.

Not yet quite ready to board the ship, they found themselves walking back toward the Pyramid. Earlier that morning, they had left Daenerys in a council session. Varys, the spymaster from King's Landing, was with her. Jon couldn't help but notice the perfumed eunuch made his sister's flesh crawl.

"What do you truly make of Queen Daenerys?" she asked, smiling up at him.

Jon shrugged. He had seen for himself what she had done in Meereen. She had brought the whole rotten edifice down on the unworthy heads of the world's most unpleasant men. Whether it would remain that way remained to be seen. "I think she's very honourable, sister. Her intentions are pure and she has a good heart. It cannot have been easy for a foreigner to win the hearts and minds of these people."

"Yes," Sansa agreed. "And she's very beautiful, too. Don't you think?"

"I hadn't noticed," he lied. He recalled several nights before, when he had noticed her up on the balcony, the way her face rested in her hand as she looked up at the stars. "Well, I might have noticed. A little bit. But that's really not what matters, Sansa."

"But it does," she replied. "Because you're sailing all the way back to Westeros on the same ship as her."

Stopping in his tracks, Jon fixed his sister with a narrow-eyed stare. He couldn't shift the feeling she had tailored this situation. But why?

"What are you up to, sister?"

She looked innocent. "Nothing, dear brother. I just wanted you to have good company for the long voyage home. Enjoy!"

With that, she spun away from him in a swirl of pink silk skirts. He watched her return to Brienne's side, a smile on his face. It was almost a relief to see that Sansa could still be extremely silly, when the fancy took her.


	32. Small Mercies

"It's not something any of us wish to contemplate, your grace, but it must be done." Maester Wolkan slid the paper across the table as he spoke. "These are uncertain times, to phrase it lightly, and the North has already suffered the misfortunes of instability for too long now."

Margaery could hardly contradict him. She picked up the document and read it over by the unsteady light of a flickering candle. With pinpoint precision, the wording of the decree enabled the seamless succession of Prince Cregan in the event of Robb's untimely death. It appointed a ruling council on which she had a purely ceremonial role. Wyman Manderly would be Lord Protector and Wolkan had taken the opportunity to solidify his own role at Winterfell by appointing himself a seat at the high table of government.

"But Robb won't die," said Arya, fixing Wolkan with a hard look. "Everyone's tried to kill him and he's survived them all. Why would he die now?"

She had the look of a child who still believed the mere act of preparing for one eventuality was the first step along the way to making it a reality. As if it was something they shouldn't even be contemplating, let alone legislating for. Suddenly appearing uncomfortable, Wolkan shifted into the light and looked at the girl beseechingly. In some places, it was treason to even imagine the death of a king. Having held her own council, Margaery saw fit to step in and spare him the effort of justifying himself.

"The Maester is right, we need to cover all eventualities," she said, reaching for her seal. "I'll sign this document and affix my seal. Then I want it put it away somewhere safe, and we will think on it no more."

She was already holding a stub of green wax over the flame of a nearby candle, while Wolkan fetched her seal. But Arya hesitated before affixing the seal of House Stark, troubling her lower lip with her teeth. A habit she still indulged at times of anxiety and worry. Her eyes were wide and shining, bright. It was as if the act of affixing each seal was a nail being hammered into her brother's coffin. It should have been touching that she couldn't imagine a world without her brothers in it, but it needed to be done. Cruel to be kind.

"Maester Wolkan, can you check the babies for me, please?" she said, glancing up at the Maester. "I seem to remember Lady Walda mentioning Lord Domeric having a rash and I'm worried it might catch on to Cregan, too."

Taken aback by the sudden command that had nothing to do with the matter at hand, Wolkan looked at her askance for a moment. She smiled, adding an air of friendly politeness to the request until he realised he was being discreetly removed from the room. "Thank you," she added, as he headed for the door at last.

Arya watched him leaving, too. Her dark grey eyes softened as the sound of the chains receded down the corridor outside. Once out of earshot, she sank into a chair beside Margaery. "It's almost like they want it to happen. Especially him."

"Wolkan?" said Margaery.

"He served the Boltons!"

The context of Arya's concerns suddenly became a little clearer. In Arya's eyes, it mattered not that Maesters served castles and not families; Wolkan had cooperated and collaborated. An unforgiveable sin compounded by the fact that Roose Bolton had brought him down from the Dreadfort.

"If I am honest, I'm looking forward to the arrival of our new Maester and then Wolkan can be sent packing back to what's left of the Dreadfort," she admitted. "But Arya, that's why I need your help now. If anything should happen to Robb, Cregan will be vulnerable. He's barely six months old – "

"Which is why Robb should be here," Arya cut in.

"Robb had no choice, so now we must limit any damage that may come from his death. Cregan is vulnerable and he will be at the mercy of whoever his ruling council is," she explained, then paused for breath as she picked her next words carefully. "Arya, you helped to bring Cregan into this world, he drew his first breath while in your arms. As he grows into manhood, he will turn look to you for help and protection as much as he does Robb and I. But he needs you now to safeguard his future, should the worst happen."

Arya made no immediate reply, but she sat straight in her chair as her expression hardened – her resolve gathering. Beside her, the candlelight flickered on a draught and the distant sound of a baby crying drifted down the passageway beyond. It didn't sound like Cregan, but Margaery stiffened all the same.

"If anyone should come between my nephew and his inheritance, I'll gut them myself," said Arya, her gaze not wavering from Margaery's.

"Then pre-empt the necessity for bloodshed and formalise that same inheritance," Margaery replied, smiling all the same. "It'll save a lot of misfortune in the long run."

The shadows on the wall swayed as Arya moved, reached for the seal of House Stark and affixed it to the document. Her movements were jerky, sudden, as if she wanted it over and done with quickly. She had none of the fluid dexterity with which she practised her sword-craft. And as the grey wax dripped onto the parchment, she managed a wan smile. "Do you really believe I helped with Cregan's delivery?"

"I was there, remember?" Margaery laughed.

The colour rose in the girl's cheeks at the well-meant jibe. "Of course. But all I did was catch him before he hit the cobbles."

Margaery's smile widened. "Yes, while all those big, gruff men stood around like stuffed sheep and not knowing what in seven hells to do."

The atmosphere lightened as the wax seal dried on the succession and a natural silence fell between them. Margaery lapsed into thought, weighing up whether she should or shouldn't say what was on her mind. But she had to. "I might be needing your help again, soon."

Arya looked up from the document she had signed. "Is there another decree to sign?"

Margaery shook her head slowly. Hesitant, she added: "After Robb left, I missed my time."

Although still mystified, the younger girl's expression cleared quickly as the penny dropped. "Already? So soon after Cregan? Are you certain?"

"It's been three months," she said, waving one arm dismissively. "If it is so, then I'm … happy. We need Stark heirs and one was never going to be enough."

But it was soon. So painfully soon after the last. Even Arya's expression reflected her own concerns, but she did not say anything. At least, this time, she was living in a comfortable home and not being hauled from one battle camp to another.  _Small mercies_ , she thought to herself as she concluded their business matters.

With the succession dealt with, they parted ways at the door of the solar that had once been Ned Stark's. Before, when she first arrived to deal with this matter, she opened a desk drawer and found a miniature portrait of a young and beautiful girl. It wasn't Catelyn Tully either, but a name on the back simply read "Lyanna". Unaccountably moved by the sweetness of the late Lord Stark having kept his sister's likeness for so long, Margaery had simply put it back where she found it and got on with the evening's business.

Now that business was over, she wished to be with her son. She strode toward the nursery, growing concerned as the baby's cries grew louder. Fearing they had been left alone, she picked up her pace. Her footsteps ringing down the deserted stone corridor as she hastened onwards, not stopping until she reached the large nursery that annexed her own chambers. She swung open the heavy oak door and froze on the threshold.

No fewer than four maids had crowded around Cregan's crib, all fussing and cooing over him while Domeric Bolton was left alone and screaming in his crib. A crib which had been removed to a small antechamber. A fraction of a second too late, the maids realised Margaery had entered the room and hastened to clumsy curtsies at the sight of her.

"What are you doing?" she demanded of them. "Where is Maester Wolkan?"

One of them, at least, had the decency to look abashed. "The Bolton child was disturbing the little prince, your grace, so the Maester moved him and instructed us to watch over Prince Cregan. He said he'd soon settle."

"Lord Bolton," Margaery corrected the girl, looking her dead in the eye. "You three, leave the prince and attend to my lord. Give me my son."

She motioned for the embarrassed girl to follow her into her chambers, where they could speak privately. Meanwhile, Lord Domeric continued his crying as the others hesitated before attending him, as if he carried some terrible contagion. But the closest thing the baby had to a terrible contagion was an unfortunate family name.

"How long has this been going on?" Margaery asked, once they were in her chambers. Cregan balanced on her hip, still gurgling happily.

The embarrassed girl's embarrassment was unabated. "None of the nursery staff like him, your grace. Not after … well, you know, because of his father."

Margaery sighed, letting her eyes drift closed as a sudden tiredness overcame her. She understood why no one was keen to keep a Bolton about the place. But Domeric was an innocent infant, completely ignorant of what happened before he was even born. If it happened again, she would have to dismiss them all. But what was Wolkan playing at? She wondered. Proving his newfound loyalty to House Stark by way of an act of cruelty to his former master's last surviving relative. It didn't sit right with her. Then the cries finally ceased and she sincerely hoped they hadn't smothered him.

* * *

The coast was just a sliver of land, like someone had drawn a crude line over the horizon. Made hazy by the thick sea mist, Daenerys had to squint to keep in focus. As the captain of the fleet navigated the treacherous Step Stones, slowly and methodically, it gave her plenty of time to just watch. That had to be the arm of Dorne she was looking at. She could see the huge inlet, curving into the mists and out of human sight. The Stormlands, she thought to herself and smiled distantly.

Her home. The place she had been trying to find her way back to since her conscious memory began. Elusive and out of reach, there had been so many times when she thought she would never live to see that sliver of a coastline. Past the Step-Stones, she could make out bumps and dips that might have been hills and valleys. Day by day, the features of Westeros revealed themselves to her as if in a slow-moving dream. And she watched, transfixed and lost in thought, as she came home.

"Dorne."

Jon's voice nudged her out of her reverie. When she turned, she found him standing right beside her although she had not heard his approach. Something he realised himself as he gave her a knowing smile. "Those will be the Red Mountains, there in the far distance," he added.

Before, when she was still wandering the Essosi continent like a lost fart in a whirlwind, she always imagined she would be exultant at the sight of Westeros. She pictured it in her head: the fleet of ships with silk sails snapping in the wind, the dragons circling overhead and the troops amassed all around her, preparing for the land invasion. But, as always, the reality turned out to be somewhat different.

As she watched the realm materialise from amidst the sea mist, it showed her only the enormity of the task she faced. Viserys had lied. There was no welcome committee, there were no multitudes of people drinking secret toasts to the lost Targaryen. There was just a huge, vast realm full of apathy and indifference to her cause and a yearning desire for peace at whatever cost. She was just another contender to an already over contested throne, looking to carve it up to her own liking.

"When I was younger," she said, turning to Jon. "I used to think the hard part would be getting the army and the boats. Back then, I could only see the obstacles between me and this shoreline." She gestured in the distance, to where the cliffs rose from the choppy waters of home. "But this isn't the end. It's not even the beginning of the end."

Jon was quiet for a moment, his gaze directed just as hers was. At the coast and the cliffs. They were so close now, they could hear the gulls wheeling over the distant fishing boats bobbing on the tide. "But you knew there was something past those obstacles, didn't you? You knew you would overcome them, at some point. You never lost faith, otherwise you'd still be drifting over the Great Grass Sea."

"That's true. It's not like I suspected Viserys was lying about us being royal born. I always knew these wars would come eventually. It was just the act of getting here."

"And you were alone then," he said. "After the Khal died, what did you have? A few Dothraki stragglers and baby dragons. Now you have the Unsullied and you have the North and the Reach ... and you have me."

Her gaze snapped away from the coast and turned to Jon, giving him her full attention. "And you?"

He shrugged, making the statement seem almost casual. "I've come this far by your side, and I have faith in you. I want to see this new Westeros, built by your hand."

It had been three months since they sailed out of Meereen. During that time, they had shared a boat and lodged in cabins that annexed each other. Sansa was meant to be in her cabin but had swapped at the last minute. Daenerys didn't know why, but she was glad of it. She was fond of Jon, and this long voyage had proved invaluable in getting to know him better.

They dined together each night, talked frequently and discussed everything from politics in Westeros right down to their families and the things they liked to do when not carrying the fate of a nation on their shoulders. There was something refreshing about him: a highborn but not a lord, not even a legitimate son. On the surface, he had everything but in reality, he had little of real substance to call his own. He wasn't some petty lordling who could rely on his family name to see him through life. Everything he had, like her, he had fought tooth and nail for. When she pointed this out to him, he merely ducked his head and modestly deflected the praise.

As such, his seal of approval meant much and more to her. "Thank you."

"Well," he said. "You can't be worse than Cersei Lannister, can you?"

Daenerys laughed. "Quite possibly the smallest compliment a Queen ever received, Lord Commander."

That evening, when the temperatures dropped the skies turned black, they returned in doors. So close to the Westeros coastline, the dragons had to be kept under control. They would be seen, Daenerys had little doubt about that. She only hoped the coast guards would see them progressing due North and think better of starting any trouble. All the same, they sent the Ironborn on ahead to deal with any unwelcome interceptors and they trailed in the Seabitch's wake.

All the same, she stayed with Jon as they travelled north across the Narrow Sea. They taught each other the games they played as children, each of them ignorant of the others due to be raised on opposite sides of the continent. He regaled her with the stories his old nurse maid once told him. Some were silly, some were funny, many were full of knights and damsels and others were frightening. The Age of Heroes, the Children of the Forest and the First Men. A few, Bael the Bard and others, he learned North of the Wall, from his time among the wildlings.

Viserys had been so obsessed with the Targaryen name, he had neglected to tell her the stories that formed the tapestry of Westerosi culture. Now, as the realm itself took shape outside her cabin, the culture and the history came alive inside it as she listened to him recounting the stories and legends. She watched his face by the light of a lantern, so close together in a confined space their bodies touched and shared their warmth. She did not mind; she had never felt so at ease with anyone before.

The days passed. The Ironborn sank a dromond flying the Lannister standard, but little else of importance happened. Word in Braavos was that the Queen was in seclusion. They moved on, sailing past the Mountains of the Moon, where Jon had been reunited with his sister at a time when he believed she was probably dead. Using a different name and her red hair dyed chestnut brown, he almost failed to recognise Sansa. It was there, too, that the temperatures dropped noticeably. No longer could Daenerys go out on deck for any length of time. The oarsmen worked harder just to keep the warmth in their flesh, pulling them onwards through stormy seas. The sea mists thickened to fogs, shrouding the coastline and the rains grew more violent. On land, she knew it would be snowing heavily.

"We're almost home," Jon assured her, one evening. "We'll disembark at White Harbour and make our way to Winterfell from there."

Previously, she would have argued the case for pressing on to Eastwatch. Now, however, she was grateful for the landing farther south. Her foreign soldiers needed to acclimatise. She needed to acclimatise. Then there were the long nights to get used to. The days were short, in the north, and getting shorter the more distance they covered. Out on deck, it hurt to even breathe.

Once again, they stayed together in her cabin and ate together. After which, he slept. She didn't think he meant it to happen, but she couldn't bring herself to disturb him. He must have been exhausted, as they all were, nearing the end of a seemingly endless voyage. She watched him for a moment, as his breathing evened out and went as far as to remove his boots. Oblivious, he slept on and Daenerys realised she was far happier having him here, rather than anywhere else. Even when unresponsive.

He slept through the night and she resumed her watch, at the porthole this time. The harbour was close enough to see the fur wrapped men running about the pier, although the light was poor. Distant lights still shone on land and Jon finally stirred.

"We're here," she said, turning toward him. "White Harbour."

His movements were stiff after a night on a cramped pallet bed, his jaw dark with stubble. But she could see the smile on his face. "Welcome home, your grace."

Relief washed over her as a horn sounded, announcing their arrival to those on the harbour. When it was answered by another, much more distant, she knew she had made it. Finally. At last. The long-expected exuberance flickered in her belly; she had sailed into something beyond her imagining. Something terrible. She knew that. But, just this once, she allowed herself to be very happy.

She crossed the room to where Jon climbed off the pallet bed and stretched himself out. She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him square on the lips. A kiss to set the seal on the beginning of the end.

* * *

The ice dragon shone overhead, the blue eye twinkling bright in the clear sky. Throughout his few years in the south, he had forgotten how beautiful it could be. Still, it was primarily a navigational tool – an old trick Luwin had taught him many years before. Follow the rider's eye to go north; follow the dragon's tail to go south. And going south had done him few favours.

Old Nan once told them the breath of the ice dragon was colder than any normal ice, instant death to anyone unfortunate enough to be in its way. Those old hearth stories felt a million miles away as they set up camp beyond the Last Hearth. Their progress had been slow and laborious. The moon had turned at least four times since they left Winterfell but, in truth, he was losing track of time.

The weather had grown worse, leaving great tracts of the Kingsroad impassable until they found a way around the obstacles. Once beyond the Last Hearth, there was nothing until they reached Mole's Town and Jon told him that had been laid to waste. Next stop after Mole's Town, to his relief, was Castle Black.

He reminded himself that it had been snowing in the Riverlands when they had left Riverrun. That was over a year ago, so he should have guessed how bad it would be in the North. If they managed to get a fire going at all, just one gust of wind from the north was enough to put it out again. They had lost animals, too. Horses had fallen in the cold and simply not been able to get back up again. It was only a matter of time before men started to do likewise.

However, the raven followed him. It croaked out random words, ill-formed demands of corn. Robb flicked crumbs at it, watching him dive into the snow in chase. He set up camp beneath a weirwood tree and dreamed of Bran. He was older in the dream, the age he would be now and not the seven-year-old boy Robb had left behind at Winterfell, all those years ago. Bran tried to speak to him, but they were so far apart Robb couldn't make out the words. He was awoken by the raven pecking at his face, making impertinent demands for more corn.

"You've survived worse than this, nephew," ser Brynden pointed out, one night. "It is bloody cold, though."

He always did have a knack for tasteful understatement.

"At least half the realm isn't hunting you down, this time," the old knight added.

Robb had to laugh; the man had a point.

Their journey progressed. Every second step he thought of Margaery and Cregan, and all the others they had left behind. He wondered what they were doing now, no matter how mundane. Brushing hair or cleaning teeth, feeding the dogs or taking the air on the battlements. As he journeyed, he could make out a large white structure spreading out on the horizon. He though it was a range of hills at first, but the top was too even. It looked too man-made.

The closer they got, the wall seemed to grow bigger and bigger and bigger. Until the vast, glittering structure dominated the skyline, casting its vast shadow over them all.

"So, this is it then?" Brynden was looking up at the top, shielding his eyes from the distant sun. "This is the world's end."

"Not quite," Robb answered. "The lands beyond the wall are actually about the same size as the rest of Westeros. That would make us about half-way to the world's end."

Slowly, Brynden turned to look at him, eye-rolling as he did so.

"What?" Robb shrugged. "It's true."

But whatever chatter they had going between them, it soon petered out as they drew closer to Castle Black. The main keep towered over the other buildings and dwellings. Halls, common halls, and barracks dotted about the yard. There was no curtain wall, hemming it in from the south, because the brothers had no need of one. They were not involved in southern politics, so had nothing to fear from southern armies.

All the same, there was something about the place that made Robb feel uneasy. There was something not right.

"No smoke," he said to Brynden. "Not even from the castle keep."

He couldn't pick out each building from a distance, but one of them had to have been a forge. The fires in the forge would have been burning non-stop, yet nothing gave it away. The only wisp of smoke he saw came from beyond the wall.

"No people, either," Brynden pointed out. "I know they're under-manned, but there's no one down there at all."

They had sent men to the wall after defeating the Boltons. Robb had forgotten the exact figures, but it was well into the hundreds. Now … nothing and no one.

Not far behind them, the northern armies amassed. Robb glanced over his shoulder, as if making sure they too had not dematerialised. Reassured they were all present and correct, he sent for Ser Garlan and Ser Jaime. Only when they were together, did Robb lead the way down to the castle. A mile or two at most, the journey seemed to drag regardless.

Many of the out-buildings were abandoned and looked as if they'd been that way for a while. From long before they arrived. A rudimentary wall had been constructed at the south side, but it was dry stone and already tumbling down. Another, an old barracks if Robb guessed correctly, looked charred and blackened. The four men exchanged glances, the looks on their faces perfectly conveying the strangeness of the situation. Even the silence felt loaded, as if there was a storm brewing just beneath the surface of it.

Just as they drew level with the outermost of the disused barracks, five men in black burst from behind the drystone wall and trained arrows on them. Startled, Robb's horse reared and tried to stumble back. Ser Jaime and Garlan drew their swords, before the watchmen realised they were outnumbered by several thousand. One of them looked over the banners and sagged with relief.

"Pardon us, your grace," he said, still looking over the army. He seemed dazed, even though he clearly understood he was not under threat. "We thought you were … well, never mind."

"Never mind!" Jaime repeated, frowning as if he'd sucked on poison. "Of course we bloody well mind- "

"It's fine," Robb cut over him. "Just tell us, what's going on here? Where is everyone?"

"And who are you?" Garlan asked, looking down from atop his destrier.

"Acting Lord Commander, Ed Tollet," the watchman replied. "There's much to tell you, my lords. None of it particularly pleasant, I might add. Come with me, all of you."

He meant the four commanders: Robb, Jaime, Brynden and Garlan. Robb assured them he knew of the man, Jon having talked about him often. As they dismounted, Ghost came bounding out of a nearby building where other men had sought shelter. Robb still couldn't understand why they feared an attack from the south but let Tollet explain the situation himself.

"Ser Alliser Thorne declared your brother a deserter and put a price on his head," Tollet explained, leading them to the base of the wall. Once there, they began climbing a set of steep steps built into the wall itself.

"He can't do that," said Robb. "I summoned Jon and I sent him to Essos to bring the dragon queen home. Seven hells, even Stannis gave him permission to leave."

"So, where is this delightful man now?" asked Jaime. "Bring him to us and we can explain the situation. He and the Lord Commander can kiss and make up as soon as he gets here."

"Is Jon with you?" asked Ed, eyes widening in hope.

Robb was loath to disappoint. "No, but he's sailing back from Meereen as we speak. That was the last I heard, four months ago."

"And he's bringing the dragons?" the urgency was hard to miss.

"Yes, as I understand it. But what of Thorne? Where is he?"

"The Shadow Tower," Lord Commander Tollet answered. His hand came to rest on the pommel of a sword, the head of a white wolf with red ruby eyes. Jon's old sword, he thought. "After declaring your brother a deserter, he tried to have all Jon's remaining supporters rounded up and put on trial. He'd have had the lot of us hanged, had he had his way. In the end, he took all his men and marched east, to where he is now. Every day I think he'll come back and finish us all off. He could if he so desired."

"Great, so the Night's Watch is now at war with itself," Garlan sighed.

Sharing his frustration, Robb huffed indignantly. "And every man just joined Thorne's side and marched off into the sunset with him?"

"There was a deciding factor, your grace," replied the Lord Commander.

"More to the point," said Jaime. Like the others, the steep climb was leaving him breathless. "You said Thorne had orchestrated something of a coup against Jon's supporters, but stopped at the last minute. Why? Why didn't he see it through to the end?"

Tollet made no immediate answer, focusing on getting them to the top of the wall. The height was dizzying but the exercise warming, bringing the feeling back into Robb's legs.

"The deciding factor," Ed repeated as they neared the top. "I'm afraid Thorne had some gate-crashers at his revolutionary party, your grace. Go on, I think you need to see this for yourself."

He nodded toward the balustrade that ran along the edge of the wall. Cautiously, Robb approached it with the other three surrounding him, and looked down. It took a minute to decipher them and, at first, Robb took them for part of the landscape – a large, oddly coloured lake. They were huddled together, thousands, numbers beyond counting. Jammed together, but spread out over the plains beyond, a vast army of people. Silent and perfectly still, their skin was colour of frost. Only the laboured breathing of his companions broke the terrible silence.

"Seven fucking hells," Jaime gasped, transfixed by the sight.

"What are they even doing?" Garlan asked, peering through a far eye. He lowered the device and handed it to Robb.

Uncertain whether he wanted to confront them, he lifted it to his own eye and trained it on those closest to the wall. Magnified, he could see that some were missing limbs, others had chests torn open and some had half their heads missing. Many wore black rags, covered in frost and flapping stiffly in a brisk wind. One thing they all had in common: they should all have been completely and utterly dead.


	33. The Wars to Come

All that was visible of Drogon was two red eyes reflecting the light of a nearby brazier. The rest of him seemed swallowed in the darkness of a night that fell swift and hard over the whole North. But when he turned his head toward Daenerys, his scales rippled as his neck twisted. Instinctively wary, Lord Manderly shifted his massive bulk a nervy backwards step. Jon could feel the apprehension oozing from him as they came to a rest, side by side. He tried to assure the old Lord that the dragons were quite tame but the words felt oddly hollow. Those beasts answered only to Daenerys and well Jon knew it.

The other two curled up and slept where they landed in the courtyard, impervious to the heavy snows that melted in the heat of their bodies. Fire made flesh. That had been clear to see when the snows hissed and steamed wherever the hot scales of the dragons made contact with it. Between them, that night, they'd consumed several whole sheep and Drogon was left gnawing on the bones of a horse that had died during the short journey from the harbour to the castle. While body warmth in extreme cold was not a problem, keeping the hulking beasts fed was going to be a logistical nightmare. Beyond the wall, food was scarce for humans and never mind dragons.

"Many of us still don't know how necessary this really is," said Manderly, eyeing the dragons from a safe distance. "None of us down here have seen this army you speak of; they've never heard the likes of it except in old hearth tales. What they do know is what happened the last time dragons were engaged in battle."

It had been clear on the faces of the people they passed. Fear, suspicion and outright hostility. Everywhere Daenerys turned, she was reminded that the North had a King and the North was loyal to its King. The first piece of news they'd been met with was that the proclaimed King's beloved Queen had safely delivered a Prince of Stark blood. While Jon and Sansa embraced and kissed, jubilant at the birth of their nephew, Daenerys had been coolly gracious in wishing Prince Cregan long life and prosperity. She said nothing of her own claim to all seven of the Kingdoms. A wise move, Jon thought, while she remained untested and unproven. But her smile was stiff and her manner was that of a stranger in a strange land. Unaccepted, unwelcome, unwanted.

"The fighting will happen beyond the wall," said Jon. "The people here, smallfolk and lord alike, won't even see the dragons. Once we're on the road to Castle Black, they and Daenerys will be out of sight."

They were out of sight now. Jon could see Dany tethering the dragons, carefully ensuring they were not chafing against the chains. And, as followers of the Faith of the Seven, the Manderly's had allowed them to use their ornamental godswood to conceal the beasts that had struck fear and resentment into the hearts of his people.

"I hope you're right, Lord Commander. No one will thank you for bringing a war of fire and dragons to our shores. And if it ends in your brother and nephew being deposed and burned, then seven save you. Because no one else will."

"Do you really think so little of me as to believe me capable?" Jon retorted, his tone low.

Manderly's small eyes narrowed. "I'll let you know what I think of you as soon as I've seen this army of the undead."

Jon stifled a laugh and said no more. Manderly was already retreating into the stone sanctuary of his castle, leaving him alone with Dany and the dragons. As he turned to her, he remembered the kiss. It was a moment of excitement, joy at returning to the home she had never known, that had driven that kiss. Jon knew that. Regardless, the moment relived itself in his head as he approached her. He tried to push it out of his mind, but the sensation was so strong he could almost still feel the pressure of her lips on his. The ghost kiss, replaying and lingering far longer than the real thing.

While Daenerys hadn't been welcomed home like a returning hero, Lord Manderly had been more than polite and open-handed. He had gifted her a full length cloak of fine fur, trimmed with rich vair and fastened with slim gold chains and buckles down her front. Bleached white, it matched her hair and skin, making her lilac eyes shine. Not for the first time, she looked like a winter princess from one of Old Nan's old fairy stories. With snowflakes swirling all about her, getting lost in the platinum white of her hair. Enchanted. That was the word, but he was loathe to use it.

"So very pretty," she said, a half-smile playing at her lips.

She was, he agreed and brushed away a snowflake that landed on her cheek. "Yes."

"Especially where it settles on the tree branches," she continued. "And on the rooftops."

Jon felt his brow wrinkle in momentary confusion. The snow. Of course, she was talking about the snow and not reading his mind, as he half-hoped. As if moving through a childhood dream, she reached out cautiously and ran her hand through a bank of snow, watching one of the flakes melting into the warmth of her skin. She looked a little sad when it vanished.

In a fit of mischievousness, Jon whirled away from her and gathered up a good handful of snow. Quickly balling it up firm, he took aim from behind a nearby pine. "No, no. This is what you do."

The snowball hit her upside of the head, exploding on impact. Daenerys' jaw dropped, her mouth forming a perfect 'O' in a silent shriek. Her shock soon passed and her face broke out in a wide grin as she stooped, scooped up a handful of snow and hurled it back. Jon dodged out of the way, then dissolved into laugher. She'd thrown loose snow, without mashing it into a proper snowball, and it merely disintegrated in mid-air. Useless and wide off it's target. She watched in dismay as her missile drifted back to the ground in a snowy mist.

"Wait! What!" she cried. "That's not fair!"

That was the problem with living in hot countries. The ways of the cold north were lost on such souls and it made Jon laugh aloud. "If you seek to rule us you must fight like us!"

His second snowball hit her on the arse as she bent over to try and scoop up a missile of her own. At the moment of impact, she leapt up like a jack in a box, yelping with one hand clamped on her skinny backside. Jon admired his aim.

"Right," she warned, advancing toward his hiding place among the pines. "That's it. Be warned. I'm coming to get you."

Making little attempt at hiding, Jon stumbled forward into the woods to evade her. Meanwhile, his chaser was quickly cottoning on to the fine art of snowball making and something quite solid smacked him in the back just before he could lunge behind an old oak. Her jubilant laughter rang out, scaring a bird in the overhead branches. But the score was still two-one to him and he got her a third time with a stealthy, underarm throw.

There was an army of the dead marching on the wall. Jon hadn't forgotten. A war was coming so great, so terrible, the world as they knew it might be changed forever. He supposed he should be in a stone hall, solemn faced and preparing for the end times. But running through the snow, dodging the trees and Dany's ill-formed snowballs seemed a much worthier pursuit, even if only for a few minutes. A time to remember that they were still young, that a fragile peace still held the land and, for now, they were alive. Together. Both of them. At the same time.  _'_ _If we die we die,'_  said the voice of a girl he had once known and loved,  _'but first, we'll live.'_

The ghost girl receded, leaving him in the present. Some small part of him wanted her to stay but she was already gone a long time ago. 'Live'. He murmured the word softly under his breath as a snowball smacked him square in the face. With the score evened, it was his turn to give chase. Weaving expertly through the trees as he was, she still managed to slip his grasp. His fingertips brushed the fur of her new cloak, but she laughed and darted lithely from his grasp. She was just a flash of silver, ducking in and out of the cover of the woods. Elusive, but not for long. He second guessed her next move, lying in wait before jumping out and catching her by circling his arms around her waist.

In response, she put up a struggle. But it was a feeble struggle and she turned in his arms to face him.

"I win," he said, breathless and warm from the exertions of their game.

He thought he should probably let go of her now, but he felt her body relaxing in his arms. She brought one hand to his face, neither seemed capable or willing to look away. On the contrary, barely perceptibly, she stretched herself upwards. A pause that lasted half a heartbeat came and went and neither backed away. This time, Jon was ready for the kiss he knew was coming. This was no heat of the moment show of gleeful abandon. It was a premeditated, wanted, conscious decision they made in tandem. Her lips were cold, but the kiss tasted sweet as honey.

* * *

The lit torch made a graceful arc through the night air before spiralling downwards. From the top of the wall, Robb watched its descent, the flames forming a blur as it spun and spun. Briefly, they lit up the faces of the undead as it hit one of them square on the head. Still they did not move, even as one of their number caught the flames and rapidly combusted in a human ball of flame. No stranger to the smell of burning human flesh, Robb was even more disconcerted by their lack of odour.

"You'll have to do better than that if you want to push them back, your grace."

Robb turned to where Jaime Lannister came to a halt at his side. He, too, was looking down into the sea of undead creatures stretched out under starlight. "I know. I just wanted to see what would happen."

He had recalled what Jon told him, about the time he saved Jeor Mormont from just one of those wights. Armed only with a bare flame, he'd fended off the attacker. It had been a violent scuffle, leaving Jon burned and even more badly shaken. So, he knew, that while passive now, those wights would stir into a frenzy should they catch a whiff of living human flesh. Only the wall prevented their feeding frenzy. Meanwhile, the flaming torch he had tossed over the edge of the wall had already sputtered out. One, maybe two, of the wights had been finished.

 _Still,_  he inwardly shrugged,  _it was a start._

"I've already written to the Queen," he added. "Even if she can do nothing personally, she still needed to be briefed on the situation."

"I've written to Cersei, for all the good it will do us."

Robb found himself closely regarding Lannister. He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment he went from being a barely tolerated enemy to a trusted military advisor. But it was probably roughly the same time they both clapped eyes on what was out there, beyond the wall. Whatever happened in the past, it no longer mattered. He was a general and a damn good general. They'd be needing those, in the wars to come.

"Tommen is King," Robb reminded him. "If you can bring him under your influence, Cersei's opinion will hardly matter."

"Logistically speaking, that's rather difficult," Jaime replied. "With me at Castle Black and Tommen in the Red Keep-"

"I mean you should return and make your case," Robb cut in. "Sail from Eastwatch, it should only take a couple of weeks. You can be there and back in a matter of a few turns of the moon."

Even the words stuck in his throat. He was appealing to his wife's former betrothed for assistance. From an enemy. From a foreign power the North had cut ties with. But if that army of wights passed the wall, marched south, they would not be so kind as to stop at the border. Young Tommen would be next and it was in all their interests to prevent that. As for the dragon queen, Robb didn't even know if she was on her way or not. He couldn't plan ahead with promises, he needed certainties.

 _If they all came, what then?_  Robb couldn't help but suppress a laugh at the thought of Margaery, Tommen, Cersei and Daenerys Targaryen all lodged within the halls of Winterfell. A veritable who's who of Westerosi royal claimants, a meeting of minds in an unholy alliance. Together, they would either do the job of the white walkers for them, or they might just hammer out some kind of unified plan. And Robb had always lived in hope.

"I have no wish to go, your grace," said Jaime, solemn and sombre. His gold armour looked dull in the night, its usual lustre quite removed. "But, if you command it."

"You're not my subject to command," he said. "However, I'd be eternally grateful if you spoke to your sister and, er, nephew."

Briefly, Jaime caught Robb's eye and a moment of understanding passed between them. They both knew the truth of Tommen's birth, but that no longer mattered either. For all Robb cared, they could plant an averagely communicative Barbary ape on the iron throne. Jaime and Cersei's incestuous bastard meant little and less to him. With a nod, Lannister walked away, leaving Robb all but alone atop the vast ice wall. Behind him, directly below, a thousand undead eyes seemed to scrutinise his every move.

Later, with his feet back on the ground, he made his way through Castle Black. Ever since they had arrived, the day before, the army had been set to felling trees for fires. Siege engines had been laboriously manoeuvred over the uneven ground. Now they had to figure out a way to get them to the top of the wall. The siege engines already in use by the Watch were inadequate, old and more dangerous to those using them than any potential target. The scorpions were easier and would be used to fire flaming bolts into the crowds below the wall. It felt futile, but until proper help arrived, it was all they had.

As he passed one of the fire pits, Ser Garlan Tyrell intercepted him. Red faced over his thickening beard and gimlet eyed, he took a moment to catch his breath. "Your grace, we found your brother's maps. Thorne didn't steal them, after all. Come, we have a suggestion."

Throughout the day, while organising a proper defence of the wall, they had been trying to sort through exactly what had been happening since Jon's departure. The most positive outcome of his investigations had been a reunion with Ghost. The direwolf had been protected by Lord Commander Tollett, secured below ground where the old stone baths were. Now the wolf was curled up by the fire in the Lord Commander's private solar. Even now, Dolorous Edd looked a little mystified at his exalted position within the Watch, despite the deadly split in the ranks.

A large table dominated Edd's solar. A trestle table with uneven legs and a heavily marred surface. Like everything else at Castle Black, it was beyond basic. It was barely fit for purpose. But gathered around it, save for the Lord Commander himself, was Ser Davos Seaworth, Loras Tyrell, the Blackfish and Bronze Yohn Royce. Between them, the aforementioned maps spread out, criss-crossed with multi-coloured ink; a palimpsest of routes, trails and pathways through the wilderness beyond the wall. All came to a dead end at the edge of the Lands of Always Winter. Not even the northernmost wildlings had gone that far and certainly not the Night's Watch. Looking at it now, and considering what was happening, Robb had the uncomfortable feeling they'd soon be finding out what lay at the heart of that forbidding territory.

Also in the room, a man Robb had not met before. A large and weather-beaten wildling with a thick red beard. Edd made the introduction: "Your grace, this is Tormund Giantsbane, leader of our wildling forces."

It was brief and to the point. Robb acknowledged the man with a nod, making no mention of the unhappy past between House Stark and the folk beyond the wall. He'd been raised to view them as the enemy; rapers and pillagers and the scourge of the land. He could only imagine what the wildlings had been told about the likes of himself.

"You're Snow's brother," said Tormund.

Not sure whether it was a statement or a question, Robb opted for the former. "I am."

The other man's face remained impassive. Neither impressed nor put out. He said nothing, while all eyes in the room seemed to be watching them, as if Robb was somehow being put to the test and he was yet to learn what that test really was. In the end, he extended a hand toward Tormund and ignored the flicker of cold apprehension that troubled the pit of his stomach. "Jon's told me all about you, it's good to put a face to the name."

"And what a fucking face it is," Edd said, barely glancing up from the map he was studying.

Tormund's blue eyes flashed and a bark of laughter shook the timbers of the room. The handshake was brief and crushing. "Remember this face, boy. It might just be the one that saves your arse."

Once more, Edd spared Robb the effort of a reply. "On that comforting thought, I say we get this done with. It's like planning your own funeral."

However, Robb gave the wildling a friendly clap on the back as they took their places at the Lord Commanders table. Ser Garlan was with him already, sitting at his right. The others arranged themselves.

"So, what is this suggestion?" asked Robb, when the room settled.

"We need to deal with our friends beyond the wall and I propose an attack from the rear," said Ser Garlan. He gestured to a newly inked line on the map, dotting its way up the east coast. "We dock at Hardhome and lead a force south, sweeping the land as we go. We have the men for it, we have the means to get there and controlling enemy numbers until help arrives is the best we can do."

Robb was sceptical. "But Jon has already been to Hardhome, he said it was a disaster-"

"Tormund and I were with him," Edd pointed out. "They'll have stripped the place bare and moved on by now. It's just sitting there, empty and abandoned."

"In theory, at least," said Ser Garlan, non-too reassuringly. "But if we can set up some sort of garrison in the ruins of Hardhome, we'll be launching a duel attack on those creatures. They'll be boxed in from both the north and south."

"Stannis had already carried out significant repairs to the Shadow Tower," Davos explained. "I propose you let the Knights of the Vale march over there, deal with Alliser Thorne and the rest of the deserters, then let the same Knights man not just the Shadow Tower, but the rest of the forts. Your own forces and the Vale combined would be more than equal the Watch even when it was at its height."

That was true. Even before Jon left, the Watch was a sliver of its former power. Only Castle Black was fully manned and one other that Robb couldn't recall off hand. Ever other fort was abandoned to time and decay. Right now, they had the Reach, the Vale and the North to use to bolster numbers, revive the dying fortresses and more left over to lead an attack from the north.

"But if there's a force going north to set up a garrison in Hardhome, I'm going with them," he said. He could see it on the map. Not too far away and right on the east coast. If they had to abandon the place, they could do so easily. All the same, Jon's horror story of what had happened there curbed any enthusiasm he might have felt. The presence of living people there once more might only attract the wights back. On the other hand, that might be what they needed. Draw them away from the wall and attack. Robb continued: "Tormund, I'd be grateful if you and your forces could come too. You know your land far better than I ever could."

Tormund gave a nod. "Anything's better than hiding in this damn castle."

Robb had to smile at the irony. For centuries the wildlings and the Watch had been slaughtering each other. Now the Free Folk were propping up the ancient brotherhood with what meagre forces they could smuggle out of the land of the dead. The tables had turned now. Crow, savage and lord alike. They were all threatened with the same form of extinction.

* * *

Daenerys felt her cold face burn as she stepped up to the dais in the common hall. Lord Manderly greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. Next to him, his eldest granddaughter, Wynafryd, beamed happily as she hugged Sansa Stark. Not so long ago, she had been betrothed to Rhaegar Frey who died a mysterious death that the Manderly household still loved to jest about. However, it was Jon who held her attention. As she took a seat beside Lord Wyman, she watched Jon talking to a man she did not know. Every so often, when the man was speaking, Jon glanced over to her for just a second. Each of these furtive glances, the brief second in which their eyes met across the room, made her heartbeat race.

She barely knew what had come over her. But she couldn't deny she had been watching him for months. She noticed him when he got off the ship, she noticed him more as he and Sansa wandered the streets of Meereen, looking lost and sunburnt. While she was polite and engaging, he had reminded her of a cool, still pool. Quietly enticing and more than a little enigmatic. It was that very stillness that drew the eye.

As realising he was keeping people waiting, Jon suddenly broke off the conversation he'd been having and hurried to the dais. Meanwhile, the feast that had been prepared in her honour began, naturally, with a toast to the King in the North and his gracious Queen. Daenerys hadn't expected anything different, she didn't think to walk in and take over. All the same, she felt her smile stiffen as she raised her glass and intoned their names. After that, however, the evening became easier. Jon sat at her side, neither of them able to talk about the kiss in the godswood but both of them alluding to it on more than one occasion.

Where she stood with him, she did not know. He acted like he was still Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, other people still treated him as such. But he'd been released from his vows by two separate kings and he himself had named a successor. All the while, they drew themselves toward each other, unable to stop it and, at the same time, unable to give in to it. Even now, a distance remained between them. She could sense it, even if he didn't acknowledge it.

"You look to take the iron throne, my lady," said Lord Manderly.

She recognised it as a statement of fact. "I mean to take back what my father squandered."

Picking her words carefully, she hoped it would put some distance between herself and Mad King Aerys.

"You will find, I think, certain parts of the realm more receptive than others," he said, topping up her glass.

She recognised that for what it was, too. "You mean, the North is, quite literally, a cold house for anyone bearing the name 'Targaryen'."

"The North is a cold house for any ruler not bearing the name 'Stark', is more accurate," he clarified, smiling to take some of the sting from his words.

From the tail of her eye, she noticed Jon stiffening in his seat and turning towards them. However, she smiled and touched his hand to assure him all was well. Meanwhile, her mind turned over the facts she had to hand. White Harbour was a decent town, the castle a fine one. Even now, with winter closed in all around them, the feast was worthy of a king. The Manderlys, it seemed, had always done well for themselves.

She sipped her wine and turned back to Lord Manderly. Lord Too Fat to Sit a Horse, was what Stannis Baratheon called him. She remembered Jon telling her, sniggering like a boy.

"I've noticed House Manderly is not like the other northern houses," she said. "You follow the faith of the seven and your godswood is more for decoration than worship."

Presented with this chance to educate, Manderly give a whiskery smile. "Ah, you see, we're not from the North, originally."

"The Reach, wasn't it?" she said. Already knowing it was true, she continued: "A falling out with House Gardener that led to banishment. House Stark kindly offered you sanctuary here, in White Harbour."

Over the centuries, the Manderly's had built this town themselves. They'd done well but, currently, the present day Lord Manderly was looking a little disconcerted. "Exile has not diminished your knowledge of Westerosi history, I see."

"And now you have a King in the North who was put back on his throne by an army from the Reach, in return to making a Tyrell Queen in the North," Daenerys continued, meeting the lord's gaze.

His large face flushed and his complexion had been ruddy to begin with. It was entirely possible, she considered, that had circumstances been any different, he might not have accepted Queen Margaery at all. It would have been sweet Wynafryd or brave Wylla currently occupying the Queen's seat in the halls of Winterfell. Whether that was true or not, the old man was magnanimous about it.

"Times change," he said, flatly. "The Reach is no longer our enemy."

"Of course," Dany agreed after another sip of wine. "And it pleases me to hear it. Times change, the generations turn and history recedes from conscious memory. What were once enemies become friends and, sometimes, people surprise us."

Lord Wyman met her gaze easily and she liked that. She liked that he did not baulk from her truth. He even smiled and raised his glass to toast her. "And you?" he asked.

Dany smiled. "I'm full of surprises, Lord Manderly."

* * *

Alone in her solar, Margaery unfurled the small scrap of parchment tied to the raven's leg. At first, she saw little beyond Robb's familiar handwriting. The sight of it alone, without reading a word of what he actually said, was enough to make her heart jump into her throat. Before reading the letter, she had to pause and compose herself, drawing a deep breath. Eventually, she tilted the parchment toward the light and read quickly. What the gods gave with one hand, they took away with another.

Her sheer giddy relief at Robb's continued existence gave way to deep concern that made her stomach fold. A handful of phrases jumped off the page, lodging in her mind. Wights. Numbers beyond counting. Already at the wall. Basically, should someone forget to lock the gates properly, Westeros would be facing a full scale invasion of dead people in the blink of an eye.

Even now, even in the darkest night, she hoped this would all come to nothing. That Jon, and the Night's Watch had been mistaken, that things were not as bad as they seemed. But her last hope of that had just gone up in smoke. She crossed the room and opened the door to the nursery. Cregan was asleep now, his nursemaid dozing in an old rocking chair. She had no intention of waking him, all she needed to know was that he was safe. To reassure herself that no harm could come to him. An over-protectiveness motherhood had brought. Even distant threats felt like they were on your doorstep, when a child was concerned.

She leaned against the cradle and let the pad of her index finger touch the tip of the sleeping infant's nose. Cregan's face wrinkled, but he did not stir. If someone did forget to lock the gates she thought she could send him to the Reach. After all, how far could dead men run? But even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew she was being bloody naive.

"Your Grace."

She had not heard Maester Wolkan enter the rooms. He walked softly, these days, muffling the chains around his neck so as not to disturb the sleeping Prince. Normally, she would have been grateful but this time, he startled her. He apologised, flinchingly, as if she might turn into Ramsay Bolton.

"What is it?" she asked, closing the nursery door behind her.

"A raven from White Harbour, letting us know of the safe arrival of Lord Jon Stark and Lady Daenerys Targaryen," he said. Gravely, he added: "Along with three dragons, your grace."

The Citadel had no love for dragons. Margaery knew that. However, it was of no concern as a little hope appeared back in her world, just as she thought it quite snuffed out. She smiled and picked herself up. Despair would get them nowhere. "Prepare the castle for their arrival, Maester. And send ravens to every lord not at Castle Black. There is grave news to share." She walked toward the door, stepping around the maester. Glancing over her shoulder, she added: "And send outriders to Jon and Daenerys. They need to be here, post haste."

Now she had something to focus on. A direction. Still, she did not think it would be enough to keep her sane while her husband fought legions of wights.


End file.
